The Head of a Slayer
by Dave
Summary: A Buffy and Highlander crossover. When an immortal starts taking heads in Sunnydale, the scooby gang investigates. When they find out the immortal might be after Buffy, things get interesting. Then Duncan arrives.
1. Chapter 1

The Head of a Slayer

A Buffy-Highlander Crossover

by David Pontier

This story takes place in the spring of 1999 toward the end of season three in Buffy and well after the last episode of Highlander.

****

Chapter 1

Buffy Summers sat in the back seat of the Ford Taurus looking absently out the window. The scenery along Interstate 15 had ceased to be that interesting once they had left the foot hills of the Providence Mountains, and now they traveled through the low, flat land that led towards the Pacific Ocean known as the Mojave Dessert.

Vacationing in the mountains had been fun. Her parents were too busy trying to control her to be fighting with each other. Buffy hated it when they fought and shouted at each other and found out early that it was better if they were occupied with her than with themselves. There were lots of things for a six-year-old to get in trouble with on a camping trip in the mountains, and Buffy had done her best to try them all.

It was early August and only a couple weeks before school started. Buffy would be in first grade this year. That meant a full day of school; no half days like in kindergarten. This meant she would be away from her parents for seven hours a day. Sure, they both worked, but when she was home, she could always get into something to distract one of them from the other. Now, with her being babysat by the Los Angeles Public School System for seven hours a day, they would have the luxury of thinking about things other than her. She would have to try and change that.

It was half an hour past sundown, and the already boring landscape was getting very dark. Though six-year-olds are not normally tall anyway, Buffy was particularly short and could not see the ground out her window. She could only see the occasional tree tops now, and in the fading light, they were becoming less visible every second. She should probably take a nap for the rest of the trip home, but she needed to stay awake so if her parents did start to argue about something stupid, she could break in and distract them.

Still, she wanted to be able to look at something. She knew that the mountains should still be visible behind her, but with her seatbelt fastened she could not turn around to get a look at them. She looked down at the seatbelt, frustrated by her limitations. In the few years since she had graduated from her car seat, she had thought that she would have a much freer existence in the car. Instead it had been just the opposite. Her legs were too short to hang over the edge of the seat, and instead, her feet could barely touch the back of her mother's chair. With her seat belt holding her tight against the back seat, there was little she could do.

As she looked down at the offensive restraint, she imagined for a moment that she had the strength to rip it. She could sense that the fabric of the belt was no stronger than toilet paper, and she could tear it with her bare hands. She shook those images out of her head. She had been having those types of visions more frequently as of late, and they were very confusing.

Instead, Buffy focused on the belt clasp. She did not need super strength to press that. As her finger slowly went toward the shiny, silver button, she heard her father from the front seat. "Buffy Anne." Her head popped up, and she saw her father's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Leave your seat belt alone."

"But I can't see anything," she argued back.

"Look at the cars honey," her mother responded.

Buffy gave a loud, frustrated sigh but left her belt alone. She did look at the cars. The road was two lanes, and Buffy's dad was driving in the left one. He was passing cars quite regularly. Buffy could see that they were going well over the speed limit. No matter how excited her parents seemed to be to go on vacation each year, they were always far more eager to get home afterwards. Buffy could only see the top half of the cars, but she looked at each of the drivers, hoping they would turn to look at her so she could make a face.

Suddenly her father made a startled noise from the front seat, and quickly slid into the right lane. The reason why became clear a moment later when a Suburban came rocketing past in the left lane. It must have been doing over 90 miles per hour. "That guy is going to kill someone," Buffy's dad said as he watched the car accelerate towards the next two vehicles on the road.

The next two cars were a pickup in the left lane and a semi in the right. The semi was going slow, which was to say, only five miles over the speed limit. The pickup on the left was in the process of passing, but not fast enough by the Suburban's thinking. The large vehicle swerved into the right lane in front of Buffy's family car, and her dad wisely applied the brakes.

Buffy could tell something exciting was going on, and she strained herself against her seatbelt to see out the front window. There was a narrow gap for the Suburban to squeeze through between the pickup and the semi, but the pickup driver had no intention of getting cut off by the reckless Suburban. He accelerated and the Suburban was denied.

Then it happened. The semi slowed down. Perhaps another, slower truck was in front of him, or maybe there was a bump in the road. Whatever it was, the Suburban had no chance. It was just swerving back into the right lane when the semi's brake lights glared bright red in its face. The Suburban hit the brakes too and tried to swerve back left, but the tailgate of the pickup was still there. The Suburban swerved back to the right, and the top-heavy vehicle had had enough.

With its traction lost from the skidding brakes and its momentum rocking back and forth at over 80 miles per hour, it spun and flipped. Buffy's dad had been slowing down consistently since the Suburban had first approached the back of the semi, and now he slammed his own brakes, making sure not to go into a skid. Buffy was already leaning forward against her seatbelt, so the shock of being thrown forward was not that great, but the pain of her belt digging into her stomach made her scream out. She was only silenced as she was thrown back into her seat when the Taurus came to a sudden stop.

They had out paced the cars behind them by enough that there was no danger of being rear-ended, but that was not the major concern now. As they had come to a stop, the three members of the Summers' car had their eyes transfixed on the tumbling Suburban in front of them. As it hit the roof on its first roll, the heavy car popped into the air like a spring, flipping completely over in the air before crashing back on its top. The driver was thrown from the vehicle when it hit the ground a second time and followed his car as a gruesome shadow to the vehicle's tumbling routine on the interstate.

The car flipped almost a dozen times before it crumpled unevenly and spun off the road into the ditch. The driver stayed on the road, rolling over the asphalt as if he were falling down a steep hill. When he finally came to rest, Buffy's dad quickly accelerated toward the still figure. All the fading light of the late afternoon had seemed to suddenly disappear, and the headlights of the Taurus were the only thing that illuminated the scene. Buffy's dad stopped the car and leaped out. Buffy released her seatbelt so she could stand on the floor of the car and see what was happening.

Her dad crouched next to the obviously dead man and propped him up so the headlights would illuminate his face. The image was burned into Buffy's mind. He was not that old, Buffy could tell, but being only six herself, everyone over sixteen looked like an adult. He had a massive head wound over his left ear, and a few cuts and scrapes across his face from the glass he had been thrown through, but for the most part, his face was not badly mutilated. This made it worse. The look of death was upon him. Every bit of shock that man must have faced as his death came upon him was evident on his face. Buffy wanted to look away, but time seemed to come to a stop, and her eyes were glued to the scene in front of her.

Images flashed through her mind then, bloody images. As she stared at the dead man visions of fire and demons, blood and bone were superimposed over his face. She heard noises too; voices that called out to her. She was too young to understand most of what they were saying, but the guttural sounds did not need a strict translation to be understood.

The dead man's eyes suddenly popped open, and Buffy screamed.

She sat bolt upright in bed, the noise bringing her from the frightful slumber. She reached over to her clock to shut it off, but after a few useless poundings, she realized it has her screaming, and not the clock. Buffy tried to calm herself and relax, but her body was shivering and sweating. She glanced over at her clock to see how much longer she had till it really would go off, but in her post nightmare frenzy, her strength had gotten the best of her and the clock was no more than a pile of scrap wires and plastic.

From the light streaming into the room, she knew it was going to be time to get up soon, and she reluctantly got out of bed. She sat for a moment, on the side of her bed, her toes brushing the carpet, thinking about the dream.

She had had dreams before, vivid dreams that rivaled this one, but those had all been about things to come. She had dreams about the master or about Angel and Druscilla. They were not strict translations about what was going to happen, but they had been prophetic none-the-less. This dream had been of her past. And it had been very realistic. Buffy remembered the incidence well. Though she had seen many dead bodies since and scenes much more horrific, the first one always stays with you.

Everything in the dream had happened exactly like it had. The little things like playing with her seat belt and looking at the trees were things she did not even know she remembered, but now that she saw them again, she knew they had to be dead-on accurate. Everything in the dream had been right, except for the dead man opening his eyes. That had not happened. The man had stayed quite dead all the way up until the ambulance had arrived and Buffy's family had continued home.

"It was just a normal nightmare," Buffy said to herself. "Teenagers have them. Not everything I do has to be supernatural." She tried to convince herself of this as she went to the bathroom to shower and get ready for school, but she was less than successful.

***

Giles and Wesley were in the library when Buffy walked in, later than usual. She plopped her bag down on the table and collapsed dramatically into one of the chairs. "You know, I appreciate the vacation when it comes to the slaying. Since the mayor and Faith have taken charge of the town, the vamp activity has taken an appreciated dive, but is there anyway to get rid of the rest of my burden for a while without introducing a syringe."

Giles cringed at her reference to when he had stripped her of her slayer powers during her 18th birthday. That discomfort only lasted as long as it took him to realize that something else was bothering her. "What is it?"

"Dreams," she responded.

"Dreams?" Wesley echoed, sounding a little too excited. "You have been having dreams?"

Buffy looked at him. He might be her official watcher, but she rarely "officially" cared. Giles helped her out. "Yes, Buffy on occasion has semi-prophetic dreams. They rarely come to pass because of actions she has taken, but they are also rarely good news."

Wesley was almost giddy as he put down the book he was reading and skipped over to a bookshelf, undoubtedly to retrieve a book about dream interpretation. Giles was less excited, but no less intrigued. He sat down in a chair next to her, removing his glasses as he did. "What was it about?"

"When I was six, I saw a man die in a car accident. It was very violent and for years afterwards, I used to have nightmares about it. Of course, ever since I came here, I've had more pressing and more viol-"

"Was there blood?" Wesley asked from the end of the table, interrupting Buffy. He looked up after a while when there was no response. "Was there blood in your dream?"

"It was a car accident," Buffy said irritated, "not bumper cars at Disney World. Yes there was blood," she turned back to Giles, "lots of blood."

"Did anything change?" he asked. "I mean, was it similar to your previous nightmares about the incident."

"That's just it," she replied. "In my previous dreams when I was a kid, things always got switched around. Sometimes it was me in the car accident. Depending on which parent I was hating most at the time, it was them. Sometimes the man's body would be dismembered and sometimes he would be driving a school bus. The dreams got so confusing that it was hard for me to remember exactly what did ha-"

"Were there snakes?" Wesley asked again, having flipped to the section of the book that dealt with bloody dreams. "In your dream, were there snakes?"

"What?!" Buffy was incredulous.

"Right," Wesley said, flipping over a page, "no snakes."

"This time it was different," Buffy said, turning back to Giles, "or it was the same, uh, I don't know. I think this time it happened exactly like it had, I think. I mean I remembered little things like playing with my seatbelt. In the past, when my dream focused on little things it was always because those little things ended up turning into something horrific. This time it was-"

"Symbols," Wesley interrupted a third time. "Where there symbols anywhere in your dream. I mean, on the dead man. Did he have-"

"Giles," Buffy pleaded.

Giles pulled out his handkerchief and began to clean his glasses. "Wesley, please."

"I'm trying to help," he pleaded.

"Your not," Giles said. He put his glasses back on. "It sounds to me like you were just having a normal nightmare."

"But the man opened his eyes at the end," Buffy said. "Everything happened like it had when I was six, but at the end of the dream the dead guy opened his eyes."

"Were they red?" Wesley asked.

Both Buffy and Giles leveled a glare at him. "Or not," Wesley said. He snapped the book closed. "I don't think there is anything in this one. I'll find another."

"Do you mean he came back to life?" Giles asked, returning to Buffy.

"I don't know. Maybe it was just death staring at me, not necessarily him. Most things I kill just turn to dust or burst into flames or get sucked into hell. There haven't been too many things I've killed that have had a chance to stare back at me."

"But you didn't kill the motorist. He died in front of you, but you didn't kill him."

Buffy thought about this for a while. "You're right. I don't see to many dead things that I haven't killed. And this guy wasn't a demon or anything. I haven't seen too many dead people-"

"The mayor's aid," Giles said, just as Buffy too thought about it.

"The look on their faces was strikingly similar," Buffy agreed. "I didn't kill him, but I had to watch him die. Do you think he might be coming back somehow?"

"I don't know," Giles said, rising from the chair, "but I'll look into it."

"Thanks," Buffy said as the bell for her first class rang.

"Maybe it refers to cars in general," Wesley said. Buffy was picking up her bag as she looked at him, expecting the watcher to be holding another book. He was not. "Maybe your dream was telling you to be wary of traveling in a car.

"Nice try," Buffy said, "but the gang and I are going to see a movie out of town, and there is no way I am not going."

"But you need to patr-" Wesley called after her, but she was gone.

***

Buffy sat in the back of the car, looking out the window. The scene was different from her dream, but the similarities were there. Oz's van was nice for hauling musical equipment and stolen military hardware, but it mate a lousy date vehicle. His parent's car was much nicer. The four of them were not really on a date, and Buffy had made sure of it by placing both her and Willow in the back seat. Willow had wanted to sit next Oz, but Buffy had not wanted to sit in the dark next to Xander. It was not that she did not trust him, but she did not want him to get any ideas either.

"So what did you think of the movie?" Xander asked, spinning around in his front seat to look at the girls in the back. He was holding a large cup that Oz had referred to earlier as a "Tub-O-Cola." It had the words "Free Refill" printed in big letters across its side, and Xander had made good on that offer, twice.

"It was too long," Willow said. "Plus, it made no sense why she got together with him at the end, I mean he killed her father."

"Yea but her father was the evil dictator," Xander came back, shifting in his seat a little.

"Still, he was her father, and he did treat her fairly."

"No, he was evil and heartless and ruthless and, uh, bad."

"Kinda reminds me of a mayor we know," Oz piped in.

"Still," Willow said, "she should have cried for him a little bit, I mean, granted, there wasn't a whole lot of time for her to cry with them having to disarm that nuclear weapon and all, but I mean afterwards, they just shrugged it off and fall into each other's arms. I mean no one falls in love that way, plus, who wears that kind of skin tight outfit to political convention."

"I didn't think she was invited," Oz said, "wasn't she crashing it?"

"No," Xander insisted, "she was the representative from Australia."

"But she had a British accent," Willow countered.

"I thought it was Irish," Oz said.

"No, that was that other chick who looked just like her," Xander replied.

"What movie were you watching?" Willow asked. "There was only one chick."

"She was acting undercover that other time," Oz said.

"Oh," Xander said quietly, shifting in his seat again. "That would explain why she slept with that drug dealer." He was quiet for a while. "What did you think of the movie, Buff?"

"Huh," she said, pulling herself away from the window.

"The movie," Willow said. "What did you think of it?"

"Oh, I thought the plot was ill-contrived and underdeveloped yet over-told. The characters were one-dimensional and shallow. The special effects overshadowed any acting that might have existed, and the fight scenes were poorly choreographed."

"Whoa," Xander said, turning in his seat to look directly at Buffy. "Who died and made you Roger Ebert?"

"No one," Buffy said, "but as the Slayer, someone who is blessed with super strength and agility, I can professionally say that those fight scenes were unrealistic."

"And by a freak coincidence of phrases," Oz said, "someone did die to make you the slayer."

"Hey, yea." Xander started to say, but stopped as the reality of what Oz had said sunk in. Usually he was the one who put his foot in his mouth, and he did not want to join Oz in that awkward position now.

Not only was her calling something Buffy rarely wanted, but now she realized that some other girl had died to give it to her. Buffy also knew that she was good. From what Giles had told her of other slayers and by how Spike had killed two by himself, she knew that she was better than the average Vampire Slayer. The Hellmouth required that kind of skill and proficiency and she could not help but think that fate had picked her because of that skill. If that were the case, then fate had killed the other slayer when it had so Buffy could be called. It was her fault.

The car was quiet, no one wanting to breach the subject further unless Buffy did. Willow could see the look on her friend's face and knew that was not going to happen. As Xander shifted in his seat one more time, she broke the uncomfortable silence. "Xander, can't you sit still."

"I'm sorry," he replied, shifting again, "but something is wrong with this seat."

"Or perhaps your Tub-O-Cola has turned into a Bladder-O-Cola," Oz pointed out.

"That could be it," Xander squirmed.

"I can't believe you got another refill after the movie was over," Willow said.

"But, Will, it was free. Who in their right mind would turn down this much free soda?"

"A show of hands?" Oz asked, taking one hand off the wheel to raise it in the air. Buffy and Willow did likewise.

"Okay," Xander admitted, "maybe I over did it a little, but I'm fine." A pained expression crossed his face. "Really." He shifted again. "But, Oz, just to be on the safe side . . ."

"I've got ya."

A block later, Oz guided the car into the parking lot of a restaurant. "Thanks, buddy," Xander said as he leaped out of the car, almost while it was still moving and walked/ran awkwardly into the restaurant.

"I can't believe him," Willow exclaimed as soon as he was out of the car. "He's like a kid really. Like an immature adolescent."

"Willow," Buffy said, "we are adolescents."

"Yea, but, uh, he's like a really adolescently immature kid. An immature kid who drinks too much. He just drinks and drinks and," her eyes fell on the huge cup that Xander had stuffed into the inadequate cup-holder, "and he didn't even finish." She reached for the cup and continued to berate him in between slurps.

Inside, Xander ran past the hostess like a running back dodging a defensive lineman and made a straight line for the restroom in the rear. He glanced briefly at the bar, and saw a dozen people swigging beer, and an overwhelming urge rolled through his bladder. He nearly burst right there, but he managed to squeeze it off just long enough to get himself into the bathroom and in front of a urinal.

It was like the floodgates had been opened, and the urinal flushed itself twice automatically during the discharge. Xander shuddered as the last of it was out and let go a very long sigh. He turned away from the line of urinals and saw he was alone in the bathroom and he made his way to the sink. "Who died and made you Roger Ebert," he muttered to himself. "Idiot, how could you not see where that was going to lead." He continued to scold himself as he washed his hands. As he looked up to pull a paper towel, he yelped and turned around.

Behind him stood a very haggard young man dressed in a black trench coat. He looked and smelled drunk, but his eyes seemed to hold some penetrating power as they glared into Xander. "Uh, hi," Xander fumbled, quickly side-stepping from between the stranger and the sink. "I was just finished here, uh, finished meaning done with it and you can use it now, uh, take care, bye." He left.

Outside, the three occupants of the car watched him exit the bathroom hurriedly and work his way back through the restaurant to the front door. As he got in the car, Willow saw that his hands were still wet. "You didn't even dry your hands?"

"Either that or he has lousy aim," Oz said, starting the car.

"That's gross," Willow cried.

"Hey it happens," Oz came back.

She slapped her boyfriend in the back of the head. "It does not."

"I'm just saying, he was in a hurry."

"They were out of paper towels," Xander said unconvincingly.

Willow and Oz were too busy hitting and driving respectively to hear him, but Buffy did. She could also see and hear how shaken he was. As the car pulled out of the parking lot, she looked back at the restaurant to see what could have frightened him, not that it usually took that much. She caught a glimpse of the mysterious man leaving the bathroom and an odd sensation went through her. The man seemed to sense the same thing and turned to look out of the restaurant at the departing car. Their eyes locked and Buffy gasped. It was the man from her dream. It was the dead motorist that her dad had propped up in their car's headlights. The eyes were the same that had popped open and stared into her soul.

Then he was gone. Oz had pulled back onto the highway, and Buffy could no longer see him. She just about told him to turn around, but did not. It couldn't have been him, she thought to herself. He was dead. She had seen him die. She must just be experiencing a waking nightmare. She shook her head and tried to listen to the conversation within the car. It was about peeing on things, and Buffy was considerably distracted from her other worries.

***

Buffy knew it was a dream this time.

She stood in the old mansion holding a sword. Though she knew it was a dream, she did not have control of it and could only see what the dream let her. She, therefore, could not look down, but some how knew she was holding the sword that Kendra had given her. It was the sword she had used to kill Angel.

A dark figure stepped into her line of vision. He held a sword too. Though she could not see this man's face, she knew it had to be Angel. The sword was the same one he had pulled from Acathla. Buffy knew that the demon statue must be behind her, the vortex even now growing.

She remembered this scene all too well. The trauma she had gone through as a child after the car accident had been nothing to the depression and trauma she had gone through after this event. It had not even been a year ago yet, but she had so distanced herself from it, with Angel back and all, that it seemed like a century ago. Now it all came flooding back to her.

As Angel walked toward her, Buffy tried to run away. She wanted to get out of this dream as fast as possible. She could not move. What kind of torture was this? Was there some demon controlling her dreams, forcing her to relive her most horrifying moments each night?

Against her will, she readied her sword as her adversary approached. They engaged. The opening volley was fast and furious, the swords seeming to come alive in their hands. Buffy still had no control, and she felt like a puppet as her body was thrown through the violent motions of the sword fight. Something was not right.

With the car crash, Buffy had not consciously remembered all of the little details of the time leading up to the accident, but when she was shown them, she knew they were exact. This was different. Buffy had been in countless fights, but few stood out in her memory like this one. She knew all the little details. These were different. This was not how it had happened. They had not been this good.

Buffy had no formal sword training, but then, as far as she knew, neither had Angel. They both were trained fighters though, with supernatural strength and dexterity. Sword fighting had not been that difficult to pick up. Now they fought as if they were grandmasters.

Buffy tried to look Angel in the face, but she could not control her vision, and the shadowy figure remained cloaked in darkness. She grew frustrated at her inability to control her actions and she fought desperately against the force in her dream that was controlling her. As if the controlling power of the dream understood her desire, it slowly relinquished its hold on her.

As Buffy began to regain her motor skills, she instantly fell behind in the fight. This attacker – she was having doubts it was Angel – was very good. If he too was regaining control of his actions as she was, it was in no way diminishing his skill. If anything, the attacks seemed to come faster and with more precision.

Even before Buffy regained all of her motor skills, she knew she could not hope to block all of the strikes. She back-peddled and ducked around and under them until she could figure out a way to get out of this situation. Her attacker did not relent and refused to give her an opening to escape through the door behind him. Seeing that she could not block his complex routines, and that he would not be able to hit her if she continued to dodge, he simplified his attacks.

Buffy was not savvy enough in swordplay to realize the change in attack had to be a conscious effort, instead she thought that she had just fell into the rhythm of the fight finally and was able to parry the blows. The dark attacker quickened his strikes, but speed was not a problem for the Slayer, and she matched tempo. The attacks were basic swipes at her torso from left and right. All Buffy needed to do was swing her sword back and forth like an inverted pendulum, and she had no problem.

Finally her attacker faltered on one of his attacks, and Buffy blocked it high on the inside, forcing it down to her foe's left side. She brought her weapon back up and in toward her enemy's unprotected chest. He was quicker, though, and had in fact set her up. His blade snapped back into place, pushing Buffy's in the opposite direction, high and to her left. Instead of attacking her vulnerable chest, as Buffy had done, he went for her left side. Buffy, with her speed, could have gotten her sword back in place to protect her front as her attacker had, but in order to protect her side, she needed to rotate the blade straight down. She released her right hand from the grip of her weapon and rotated it in and then out.

The two weapons collided, but her more skilled opponent slid his weapon to the inside of her block and flung it wide so Buffy's arm was out parallel to her shoulders. The dark man spun his blade by his side and brought it down hard on Buffy's loosely held sword, ripping it from her hand and throwing it to the ground.

Buffy froze. It was partly out of fear, but mostly because her dream had just grabbed hold of her again. Her attacker grinned. The idea confused her at first since she could not see his face, but then he stepped into some unseen light beam that illuminated his features. It was the man from her car dream and from the restaurant. Something inside of her had already figured this out, but having it revealed to her now, as she stood helpless in front of him with his sword poised at his shoulder, shook her with fear.

"There can be only one!" he screamed and swung at her head.

She sat bolt upright in her bed again, this time both hands clutching at her throat. She wanted to scream, but she could not produce a sound. It felt like her vocal cords had been severed. They had not, and as she came back down from the high of her dream, she moaned in frustration. She fell back down on her bed, and glanced at her new bedside clock. It told her she only had five minutes before she had to get up anyway. If these dreams were going to torture her each night, at least they had the decency to do it close to 7:00 so she did not have to try and go back to sleep.

She got out of bed, and on a sudden impulse gave Willow a call, hoping she would be up early too.

***

"So what are we looking for," Willow said as she booted up the computer in the school library. It was a good half-hour before school was going to start, and Giles must have slept in because they were alone in the library.

"When I was six I saw a man die in a car accident," Buffy said. "I've been dreaming about him lately." Buffy gave Willow the particulars of the accident such as when and where so she could begin her search.

"What kind of dreams?" Willow asked as she surfed.

"Last night he cut my head off."

"Oh, those kinds of dreams," Willow swallowed, thanking fate for the thousandth time that she was not a Slayer. "So I'm looking for a dead guy," Willow quickly got back to the point, not wanting particulars from the nightmare. She had enough of her own. Most of them dealt with vampires and demons, but a surprising amount of them contained frogs for no reason that Willow could properly grasp.

"I think he's dead," Buffy said slowly. "I thought I saw him last night in the restaurant that we stopped at for Xander."

"Oh, about last night," Willow interrupted. "Oz wanted to say he was sorry for bringing that up about someone dying to make you The Slayer."

"Oh, huh," Buffy said, having a hard time switching tracks. "Oh, that."

Willow cringed. "You had forgotten. Sorry. Now I brought it up."

"I don't know," Buffy admitted. "I've never thought about it before. It's not like I killed her. Is it?"

"Here it is," Willow said quickly, pulling up an old obituary to the screen and changing the subject. "Anthony Marcus. Died in a car accident on I-15, August 5, 1987. He's kind a cute, don't you think?"

Willow turned and saw Buffy frowning at her. She gulped. "Though . . . I suppose . . . if he is cutting off your head, you might have missed that."

"Does it say anything else about him?"

"Well the police report said he was found dead on the scene. From eyewitness reports, the accident was his fault and no one else was injured. Unsurprisingly he was drunk at the time." Willow clicked a few pages further. "Here, he was a freshman at UCLA, and he was on the football team, a defensive back, whatever that is. He was on scholarship. Ooh, this is interesting. His funeral was empty casket. Someone stole the body from the morgue. The police blamed it on gang activity in the area."

"Police are idiots," Buffy said.

"So you thinking vampire?" Willow asked.

"Could be," Buffy said, "though vampires don't usually play football at UCLA."

"Could be that he was just recently changed."

"Or somebody could have stolen his body and reanimated him," Buffy thought out loud.

"Whatever his deal is," Willow said, "why is he after you?"

"Maybe he isn't." Buffy said. "I don't know. I mean if he is a vampire, does he need a better reason than because I'm The Slayer. He did say something interesting in my dream last night. He said, 'There can be only one.'"

"One what? One slayer?"

"Yea, there is only supposed to be one slayer, but when Xander brought me back, we created two. Maybe this guy is some vampire that thinks we aren't playing fair."

"Then he should kill Faith," Willow said with more than a little venom.

"Who knows, maybe she is having the same dreams."

The two fell silent as they heard voices entering the library.

"I don't care what the counsel says, these are my books," Giles was saying.

"But you are no longer a watcher," Wesley argued back.

"But I am the librarian, and these are library books."

"Did the school pay for them?"

Giles stopped his argument when he saw Willow and Buffy were already in the library. "Good morning. What are you doing here this early?"

"Wondering where you are," Buffy said quickly walking away from the computer. She did not want to tell Giles or Wesley about her second dream just yet. She could interpret her dreams just fine without the books. "I thought you lived here."

"You know I don't, Buffy. Now why are you here?" Giles cast a glance at Willow who was busy changing sites on the internet, realizing Buffy did not want to talk to Giles about it.

"Who died to make me The Slayer?" Buffy asked instead.

"Oh," Giles said, removing his glasses and taking a seat, "that. No one died to make you The Slayer."

"Huh," Buffy said. "I thought that's how it works."

"To each generation a slayer is called," Wesley started the familiar mantra.

"Yes, yes, I know all that, in order to get a new slayer, the old one has to die, right?"

"To each generation, Buffy," Giles said. "You are your generation's Slayer."

"Actually," Wesley jumped in, "Faith is now your generation's Slayer. When you died, the line was kept alive in her through Kendra."

"But I came back," Buffy argued.

"It didn't matter, Kendra was already called." Giles said. "When, or if, Faith is killed, another Slayer will be called, but after 20 years, a new slayer will be called somewhere else."

"What if Faith, or whoever, is still alive then?"

Giles hesitated, but Wesley, lacking all tact, jumped in. "Slayers don't normally live past their 25th birthday."

"Buffy will," Willow was quick to jump in.

"She already hasn't," Wesley disagreed. "Besides, she is no longer part of the direct line. If she dies, uh, again, no new slayer will be called. But according to the books, when The Slayer turns 36, ie 20 years after the first slayer of her line is called, her powers begin to fade, and when she turns 38, they are gone. Since Buffy is no longer part of that line, there is no telling how long she will retain her powers."

Buffy chewed on this for a while. "Then why do I have them at all? I mean if when I died, they were passed on to Kendra, then shouldn't I have not had them when I woke up?"

Wesley was stumped on that one. "That is a good question."

Everyone in the room was quiet for a while. The bell rang. "I'll look into it if you want," Giles said.

"Don't worry about it," Buffy said, though it was obvious to everyone by the tone of her voice that she was worrying about it. Still lost in thought, Buffy, followed by Willow, left for class.

***

Anthony Marcus gasped sharply as he woke up. He was alive, again.

He lay on a pile of old lumber at the end of an alleyway that was just now brightening from the morning sun. He had passed out here last night and should not have woken up. His alcohol blood percentage had been way above the 0.4% that most doctors would tell you is lethal. He should have never woken up, but he did. Anthony was immortal.

Anthony struggled to his feet. His head was swimming. Alcohol poisoning had been his death of choice lately, and he was very frustrated to find out he still woke up with a hangover. The regenerative powers of his immortality might clear his body of the poisonous alcohol, but he was still dehydrated. As he stood, an intense nausea came over him, but he fought it down. Then he grew suddenly afraid and looked around. In his current state he would not be able to tell if another immortal drew near. The warning sensation would be indiscernible from his hangover.

He calmed when he saw no one else around. He had not sensed another immortal in several months. He thought he had last night, as he stepped out of the bathroom in the first bar he had visited, but the sensation had passed quickly, and he had ignored it.

He tried to walk, and found that as his life came back to him, his coordination became more natural. Still, as he took his first few steps his head swam. He looked around again, and this time did see someone walking toward him. Was he immortal? Would he kill him in his weakened state?

The other man was hunched over some, moving quickly toward Anthony. He reached inside his jacket, and Anthony saw the glint of the sun on steel. He had a sword! Anthony was still fighting for his balance, but some motions he had done so often that he would never forget. He reached inside his trench coat and pulled out his sword. He took two quick steps toward his adversary and swung.

The approaching man was not an immortal. He had not pulled a sword, but a long knife. He had spotted Anthony and recognized an easy mugging. He was wrong. As this stumbling drunk pulled a fabulous sword from his cloak and then moved quicker than he should have been able to, the mugger stopped still, his dagger at his side. He never had a chance.

Anthony cut his head off in a practiced motion. The other man did not even have time to cry out. Anthony dropped to his knees and held his arms up to the sky waiting for the quickening. It never came. After waiting for a full minute, he glanced down at the dead man. Blood was still pouring out of dead man's neck, and Anthony backed away to keep his clothes clean. Well, he kept them from getting bloody. They were a long way from clean.

He saw the knife lying on the pavement and realized his mistake. He shrugged. His head was clearing now, and he realized he was hungry. He stooped to relieve the dead man of his wallet, and went to find a nice restaurant.

***

As usual, the gang assembled after school. Buffy had found it hard to concentrate during her classes, which was not anything unusual, but thinking about what they had talked about in the morning brought even more despondence to her already vacant personality. She was looking forward to a good night of patrolling. Giles came through in prime fashion. "There's been a beheading."

"A beheading?" Xander echoed.

Buffy and Willow said nothing but exchanged knowing glances.

"Yes, someone's head was cut off this morning," Giles repeated himself. "The police have just recently started to investigate the scene. I have a scanner."

"Welcome to the twentieth century, Giles," Buffy said. "What are the details?"

Giles shrugged. "I'm not sure, but there are several demons who specialize in the removing of heads and this might be something you want to look into."

"Are ya sure?" Xander said. "I mean beheadings are pretty common around here, aren't they? I mean next to mailbox baseball, beheadings are the kids' favorite past time."

"Actually," Wesley started, but everyone gave him a look, and he caught on. "Oh, right, sarcasm. I got it."

"So," Buffy started to give orders, "I check out the scene. Willow, why don't you and Xander see if you can find any other beheadings elsewhere to see if this is something that's just cropped up or if it is someone we know." Buffy gave Willow a wink, and she understood. She would try to track down Anthony Marcus.

"Giles, you and Wesley can hit the books to see what kind of demons take-"

Buffy stopped as she heard someone enter the library. She turned to see a stranger walking toward them. "Excuse me," he said in very British accent, "is Rupert Giles here?"

"Yes I am," Giles said, peering at the visitor inquisitively. "Patrick, is that you?"

"Rupert," he said, recognition flooding over his face. The two walked toward each other quickly and looked like they might hug, but settled on a warm handshake.

"It has been a long time, Patrick, what, about 12 years?"

"Yes," Pat responded, "about that. How have you been?"

"Well, quite well," he looked around at the rest of the room and remembered for the moment that they lived on a Hellmouth. "I've managed," he settled on. "How about you? You left quite suddenly, and I never heard from you again."

"Yes, well a Watcher's duty is very demanding."

"So you were called away on business?" Giles asked. "Because some of us had our doubts. I mean you left right before the rugby finals, and our team could have really used you. It was August I think, bloody hot and all, it was a heck of a game, you-"

Buffy cleared her throat. Giles was pulled away from his reminiscing to look at her. She drew a line across her throat and made a choking noise while her head lolled to the side as if falling off.

"Uh, right," Giles said, "we kind of have work to do."

"Business?" Patrick asked in a tone of voice that told everyone he knew what they were about.

"Yes, business."

"Right," Buffy said aloud, "You two can get acquainted later, right now things are a foot. We've got work to do and it would be nice to get a HEAD start."

"Uh, Patrick Erwin," Giles said in a way of introduction, "Buffy Summers."

"Charmed," Buffy smiled and did a mock curtsey.

"Is that the . . ." Patrick started.

Giles cocked his head. "So you know?"

"When I found out you were in the area, I checked why." He turned from Giles to look at Buffy. "So you are the . . ." he let the comment go as he spotted Willow and Xander standing behind her.

"The Slayer," Willow finished for him.

"Protector of the Innocent," Xander added.

"Killer of Evil," Willow continued.

"Destroyer of the Undead."

"And rather busy at the moment," Buffy tried one last time to get everyone on track.

"We've had a beheading," Giles said to Pat.

Pat stiffened very visibly. "Uh, beheading, here?"

"Can you believe it?" Buffy said in a sarcastically innocent tone. "A peaceful town like Sunnydale. What were they thinking? Don't worry," she snapped out of it. "It's nothing to lose your head over. We are taking care of it, RIGHT GUYS!"

"Uh," Giles stammered, "yes, quite."

"Good, I'll be back in the morning to talk about what you've found." Buffy gave Giles one last look and left.

"Nothing to lose your head over?" Pat repeated.

"Yes, well, a Slayer's wit is never, uh, wet."

***

It was dusk when Buffy made it to the crime scene. There was not much of a crowd. Buffy had expected a throng of people to be gathered, but the population was minimal and mostly official. "Probably all getting eaten by vampires," Buffy muttered to herself. She did scan the people present though. Most were police investigators. A few photographers flashed pictures of the chalk outline and the vivid bloodstains. A few others were talking with bystanders asking what they had seen or heard. One person in particular caught Buffy's attention.

He was dressed in a dark trench coat, dark hair, and an inquisitive face. She could feel something else about him too. She could not quite place it, but she sensed something inside him. He looked up suddenly and their eyes met from across the crime scene. Then it hit her. It was the same type of feeling she had gotten last night when she thought she had seen Anthony. It was similar to what she felt when picking out a vampire from a crowd, but not identical.

The man paid a little too much attention to Buffy, and she looked away. It was not Anthony, she told herself. And she was pretty sure he was not a vampire. He was just a distraction. She was here for a different reason: the crime scene.

The first thing that struck her was how much blood there was. If Anthony had done this, and she believed he had, and he was a vampire, he sure was wasting a lot of blood. Biting someone and then cutting off his head to disguise the bite marks seemed a little out of the way. Buffy could see why a vampire would do that in another town to hide their presence, but in Sunnydale, it seemed a bit ridiculous. She imagined that here killers who were not vampires probably jabbed forks into their victims' necks just to make it look normal.

Still, if this was a special vampire out to reduce the number of Slayers, it was possible he was not in the loop and had his own methods. Still, it was a lot of blood. She knew that an alcoholic's blood did not clot well, and this victim's blood could have drained long after he was killed. Still . . .

Buffy looked at the outline to see how the dead man had been standing when he had been killed. If his neck had been drained locally before the beheading, there would be no spray, if it had not been drained . . . Buffy knelt next to a dumpster, looking at the vivid red spots that were streaked across it. She glanced back at the chalk outline a good twenty feet away. That was quite a distance. She looked back at the spray pattern. This Anthony was definitely aggressive and either not a vampire or not very hungry.

"Is that blood?" a voice asked from behind her.

Without looking, Buffy knew it had to be the trench coat. "Let me guess," she said, reaching into her coat and closing her fingers around a stake, ready to lash out behind her if he answered wrong, "you can smell it?"

A very puzzled expression crossed the man's face. "No, it's red." Buffy relaxed. "If you don't mind me asking," he continued, "you seem a bit more interested in this situation than the average bystander."

"And if I do mind you asking?" She said, as she stood, still not turning to face him. As she stood she noticed blood on the wall next to the dumpster as well. This was quite the spray.

The trench coat saw it too. "A typical sweeping arc," he said. "The attacker was taller, or perhaps the victim was on his knees. By the size of the blood spots, I'd say the attacker was quite fit. He is also right handed."

"Good," Buffy said, barely listening to the observations, "if one of the suspects has a profile that contains the words 'Bats Left' I'll be sure to cross them off the list." She stepped over a pile of garbage that had spilled out of the dumpster and no one had bothered to replace and moved next to the wall.

"Why are you interested in this?"

This guy was not going to give up, was he? Buffy finally turned around. "What, I don't look like a special investigator to you? Just because I'm not tall, dark, and mysterious doesn't mean I can't be interested in the super-natural too. Being short, blonde, and obvious has its advantages."

Now that she had a chance to look at him closer, she knew he was not a threat. He had a gentle face and a disarming composure. He wore a solid green sweater and dark jeans under his trench coat. He also wore a puzzled expression. At least he tried to make it look puzzled. Buffy saw through it. "Who said anything about the super-natural? The cops said the victim was robbed."

"Yea, by a real cocky mugger, and nothing says 'Nyah, nyah-nyah-nyah, nyah,' like cutting the victim's head off," Buffy turned back to the wall, "with what must have been a really big sword."

"From the pattern, it was a curved blade," the trench coat added.

Buffy had had enough. "Okay buddy, who are you?"

"Duncan," he replied.

"The . . ."

"The?" he asked.

"Yea, you guys always have these made up titles, you know like Bob the Demon Hunter or Mickey the Giant Killer. So what is it? Duncan the . . ."

"Just Duncan," he said. "And you?"

"Buffy."

"The?"

"Just Buffy," she said. "So why are you interested in this?"

"I'm after the one who did it," Duncan said.

"Out of the goodness of your heart, or some other reason?"

"We have business."

"What kind of business? What, do you work for the IRS and this guy owes eleven and a half years of back taxes?"

Duncan flinched, and Buffy saw it. Eleven and a half is not a common number by any stretch of the imagination. It was, by no coincidence, the amount of time that Anthony Marcus had been immortal. Eleven and a half years ago, Buffy had seen him die. She was hoping for a reaction and was not disappointed. "Something like that," he replied.

"Well you better hope you find him first, because if I do, you are going to have to sift through the dust to find his wallet."

The thrust of the threat was lost on Duncan, but he understood its meaning. She meant to kill him. Buffy no longer thought Anthony was a vampire, and turning him to dust was not a viable option anymore, but she was happy to see the confused look cross Duncan's face. He was not familiar with vampires. He also was not going to give her any useful information.

"So don't get in my way," Buffy said as she walked passed him toward the entrance to the alley. "And change your clothes. I've never seen anyone look so obviously suspicious in my life. I mean what are with the trench coats and you people? Is it a requirement? Full marks on the sweater, but you suck at under cover. And remember, this is my town and I don't want yo-"

She moved out of earshot and Duncan MacLeod let her go. She seemed confident enough, and he could sense the power in her, but Anthony Marcus was no one to mess with. This beheading here was nothing. If anything, it foolishly gave away his presence. By the condition of the relatively undamaged alley, there had been no quickening, meaning the victim was not immortal. Still, if Anthony had killed Kelron, he was someone to be careful around. Duncan would just have to make sure he found him first.


	2. Chapter 2

The Head of a Slayer

A Buffy-Highlander Crossover

by David Pontier

****

Chapter 2

1887

Western US Territories (Present day Southeast Utah)

Duncan MacLeod bent low to look at the broken branch. Sap still oozed from it, meaning the break was less than a day old. Tracking horses through the pines was not easy, as the needle bed hid most of the hoof prints and the rustled trees dropped enough needles to hide the rest, but there was more than one way to read a trail. It was a new skill Duncan had only recently acquired, and he was putting it to good use.

He had no horse but was not worried about being unable to catch up to his prey. He was sure they had made camp for the night. With as much as they had stolen from his wagon group, he knew they could not go far with it. This land was full of canyons that made good hold ups. He just hoped he would get the general direction before night fell in a few hours.

A hundred feet ahead he saw a white scuff on a rock that had to have been made by a shod horse. Since it had rained that morning, the mark was less than 12 hours old. Drawing a line between the broken tree branch and this second mark, he continued along their path. He hardly had to slow his trot as he spotted sign after sign. Each by themselves could be nothing, but all of them strung together on a straight line heading toward where Duncan had thought the bandits to be anyway was definitely a trail.

After an hour, the ground became much rockier and he knew he was only a mile or so from where the canyons started. A glance at the sky told him he only had about an hour of sunlight left. He also saw it was going to be clear night sky. As long as the stars were out, he would not get lost in the canyons. He just hoped the bandits were stupid enough to light a fire tonight to help him out. The canyons could be an undecipherable maze without a beacon.

Duncan quickened his pace and then stopped as he felt the presence of another immortal nearby. He quickly placed his rifle on his back and prepared to draw his sword. The sensation was a powerful one, and he was not surprised when two men came through the trees to his left. They had obviously felt him as well. At least one of them had. He wore buckskin and held a shotgun. He was fitted for these surroundings with thick moccasins and long sleeves.

His partner looked like he had been dragged out of a saloon half-drunk. He wore two pistols on his waist along with a sword strapped behind them. It was a pitiful excuse for a blade. It looked like the decorative weapons military generals wore and would break easily under consistent use. He wore ridding boots equipped with jingling spurs. He had no sleeves and his arms were considerably scraped by the pine needles. He was also leading a pair of horses.

Duncan decided to ignore this second man and concentrated on the first. The more experienced looking man also had his hand on the hilt of a sword. Duncan could see he did not want to fight and brought his own hands away from his weapon. "Well met, stranger." Duncan said.

The first man smiled and relaxed. "Likewise. May I ask what you are doing out here?"

"You may. I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. Thieves hit my party while on the road to Monticello a few miles away. I intend to track them to their camp, most likely in the canyons ahead."

"Then our lines lead in the same direction," the first man smiled. "My name is Kelron Morian. This is-"

"My name is Rusty," the second man said roughly, needing no introduction from someone else. Kelron started to walk toward Duncan, but Rusty grabbed his arm to hold him back. He was not so quick to make friends. "You said your party was held up?"

"They were," Duncan answered.

"And you just let them have what they wanted?" There was obvious disgust in the man's voice. It was clear he would never go down without a fight.

"I did not want to get into a fight. There were women and children with me."

"Still, you just let them go?"

"No," Duncan admitted. "I did try to stop them."

Rusty did not believe him. "And they did not kill you?"

Duncan smiled. "They did." He pulled back his leather vest to reveal a red stain on his shirt. "Or at least they tried."

Kelron laughed, but Rusty was just figuring out what Duncan was. He reached for his sword, but strapped behind his guns as it was, it was not easy to draw, plus he still had a ridding strap holding it down. This one was not an experienced immortal.

Kelron put his hand on his arm, stopping him. "We won't be fighting today. At least not with Duncan."

"But you said-"

"I know what I said. Put your sword away. I have a feeling Duncan would strike us both down before we knew what hit us."

Rusty's hand went from his sword to his gun, letting Kelron know what he thought about that last comment, but he let it pass, for now.

Duncan had already guest at the mentor/apprentice relationship between the two, and as he listened to Kelron explain how Rusty should have sensed that Duncan was an immortal right away, he just smiled. Rusty was a fighter. The lifestyle of an immortal was an exciting, yet very dangerous for one of his demeanor. Kelron would have his hands full.

Fifteen minutes later, Duncan and Kelron walked side-by-side while Rusty followed twenty feet back with the horses. "How long has he been immortal?" Duncan asked.

"Less than a year by what I can figure," Kelron replied. "He died in an ill conceived gunfight."

"As if there are any well conceived gun fights," Duncan said under his breath.

Kelron heard this and raised his eyebrows. "What is your intention when we find these bandits?"

"There is a Texas Ranger in Monticello. I thought to bring them to him."

"Even though they killed you? You would not seek to kill them back?"

Duncan could tell where he was going. "It is a violent land and ours is a violent life. Must we make it worse."

"Well spoken," Kelron aplauded.

"May I ask of your intent?"

"One of these bandits was the one responsible for making Rusty an immortal. He seeks revenge."

"And you will let him have it?" Duncan asked incredulously.

"I wish to show him a better way. I wish to show him your way."

"With someone as volatile as him, would it not be easy to ignore this confrontation and lead him elsewhere?"

Kelron laughed. "I suppose when you come to a deep river, Duncan MacLeod, you try to walk around it?"

Duncan smiled at the poignant analogy. Kelron was definitely a teacher. "And when you met Rusty for the first time, why did you not kill him? Or he kill you?"

"When I found him, he was confused, as you can imagine. He was in no condition to kill me."

"But he could kill us now," Duncan said. "He probably has not yet tasted a quickening, but with two quick shots from his guns, he could have two rather powerful ones. You trust him to walk at our backs?"

"Yes," Kelron admitted, "he is rough around the edges, but as you said, ours is already a violent enough life, why make it worse?"

"Because there are times for violence," Duncan said. "If you coddle a rabid dog, you will get bit."

"True enough, but if you shoot each rabid dog you come across, you will never cure the disease."

Kelron would not give up. Duncan gave him a look that said as much. Even in the fading light, Kelron understood it. "I have trained many young immortals, Duncan. Some of them would make our friend Rusty look like a harmless puppy by comparison. And I have been forced to take some of their heads. But most I have turned around and made them more like us. I realize as you pointed out, that eventually I will get bitten. But I am so far ahead of the game right now with those I've saved, that my life is of no consequence."

"Does Rusty understand the nuances of our 'Game?'"

"There can be only one? Yes, he knows of it. Does he understand it? I doubt it, for I do not fully understand it. Do you?"

Duncan did not answer that question but asked another one. "Does he believe it will be him?"

"Does Rusty believe he will be the last one?" Kelron tried to laugh but did not. He knew it was a dangerous issue with young immortals. The early stages of immortality are the most dangerous by far. After the first death, if they understand what has happened to them, death becomes a novelty. They commit suicide in as many ways as they can imagine to test their new life. It gives them a sense of indestructibility, and when they learn of the "Game," they become extremely dangerous and reckless.

"Do you believe you will be the last one, Duncan MacLeod?" Kelron turned the question around.

Duncan ignored him and pointed ahead. "The canyons. Do you see the light?"

Kelron strained his eyes and just did see the faint light fluctuations within one of the canyons. "So we know where they are?"

"Do we?" Duncan asked him sincerely.

Kelron looked at him with a puzzled expression. Duncan pointed off in a different direction a mile to the right of the faint flickering. "They are over there," Duncan said.

Kelron looked between the two locations as Rusty came up behind them. Kelron finally worked out the reflection pattern within the canyons that Duncan had seen immediately and smiled. "I'm glad we ran into you, Duncan MacLeod."

"As am I," Duncan responded.

Two hours later the three of them crouched behind a rock outcropping surveying the camp before them. The fire had burned down to coals efficiently giving off more heat than light. If they had followed the false reflection, as Kelron and Rusty undoubtedly would have, they would be lost in the complex canyon system in darkness. Instead, the path to this spot had been simple. Common sense said the bandits would not have been able to carry their heavy stolen goods deep into the canyons anyway, but most hunters were too eager for the kill to use common sense.

There were four of them sleeping around the fire and another supposedly on watch who was also sleeping. Duncan turned to Rusty. "Can you use a rifle?"

"What for?"

"Cover. You stay back while Kelron and I disarm them."

"I'm not staying back," Rusty sounded insulted. "I'm going in."

"I can use the rifle," Kelron said.

Duncan shrugged. "Take off your boots," he told Rusty.

Rusty had already fallen twice, slipping on the rocky ground in his ill-equipped boots and knew he sounded like a clumsy tap-dancer. Still, he did not like being given orders. He complied. When he had, Duncan laid out the plan. Each of the four men sleeping around the fire had their guns near them, but they could be collected without waking anyone. The lookout had fallen asleep with his rifle in his hands and could not be disarmed without disturbing his slumber. They would collect the guns from the sleeping men while Kelron covered them in case any woke up. Then they would have to wake the guard while Rusty, with his two pistols would cover the other four men.

The plan went smoothly, and they had all four sets of guns in a pile away from the men without any of them stirring. While Rusty trained his two guns on the four sleepers and Kelron covered him, now with his own shotgun, Duncan ripped the riffle out of the guard's hands and quickly turned it back around on him.

"Hey!" the lookout shouted as he stirred.

The four men around the fire woke quickly, and Kelron unloaded both barrels of the shotgun into the burning coals. The four bandits around the fire instinctively looked at the bright flash in their fire pit, and their night vision was ruined. Kelron quickly switched back to the rifle for accuracy and put a shot into the air over their heads. Not only could they not see, but now they would think they were being covered by two different people, one with a shotgun and one with a rifle.

With the two phantom shooters and Duncan and Rusty clearly visible, four of the five men gave up right away. The fifth was the leader of the group and one of the men around the fire. He was also the one who had killed Rusty. As he squinted his bad eyes at the gunman who stood over him, he did recognize him.

"Rusty Carter," he said slowly, "I thought I killed you."

"You tried," Rusty said in the same tone of voice Duncan had used earlier. "Now get up, all of you, and move against that rock," he motioned to one of the canyon walls.

The leader was not ready to give up yet. "Not quite," he said, and it looked like he was getting ready to reach for a hidden gun in his shirt as he lay on his back.

Rusty pulled his hammer back and aimed right for the leader's head. "You've gone soft, Rusty," he said. "The man I killed would have shot me in my sleep. You won't kill me."

"Try me," Rusty said confidently.

The bandit did, his hand diving for his open shirt. Rusty's gun roared long before the hand even got close. Duncan and Kelron both flinched, but the bullet hit the rocky ground next to the bandit's head, cutting the side of his face with rock fragments. It had the desired effect, and both of the injured man's hands went far away from his shirt, his face a mask of pain and fear.

Rusty retrieved the hold out pistol from the leader's shirt, and he and Duncan checked the rest of the men for extra guns before they had them tied and against the canyon wall. They stayed the night before loading the thieves' wagon with stolen goods and heading out of the canyon toward Monticello. Once they reached town, and delivered the wanted men to a happy Texas Ranger, Duncan parted ways with the other two immortals, hoping they would meet again under more peaceful circumstances.

***

Willow and Xander were hunched over the computer in the library. They were alone. The research team of Giles, Wesley, and Patrick had turned into the research team of just Wesley when Giles and Patrick had decided to go to a "pub" (as they had called it) and catch up. Giles made a lame excuse of no longer being a watcher anyway, and the beheading research was nothing Wesley could not handle. It did not take long for Wesley to leave also.

"So what are we looking for again?" Xander asked. He had only recently arrived back after getting food.

"Buffy's been having these dreams and this guy keeps popping up in them. Last night he tried to cut off her head."

"This guy have a name?"

"Anthony Marcus," Willow said. She had been searching for more information on beheadings in the local area, but was coming up short. Now she pulled up the page that showed Tony's obituary.

"Wow!" Xander said, almost dropping his piece of pizza when the page came up. "I know this guy."

"How?" Willow asked. "Have been dreaming about him too?"

"No, Will! I'm not like that! Have you been talking to Larry?"

"What?" Willow was confused. "I'm talking about nightmares, you know, like Buffy is having. What are you talking about?"

"Uh, nothing," Xander calmed suddenly. "I mean, no, I haven't seen him any dreams. I saw him last night in that restaurant we stopped at."

"Right!" Willow sounded a bit too excited. "Buffy said she thought she saw him there too. Did you notice anything weird about him?"

"He did seem really creepy."

"Like vampire creepy?" Willow asked. "Buffy and I think he is a vampire, what with him being dead and all."

"He didn't try to bite me, if that's what you mean. I was in the restroom, washing my hands. I was sure I was alone, but when I looked up, this guy was standing right behind me. He was all quiet and somber with his dark trench coat and evil gaze."

"Yea," Willow interjected, "what is with the trench coat and all. Spike and Angel both . . . Wait! You said you looked up and he was standing behind you?"

"Yea, when I looked up I saw him . . ."

" . . . in the mirror," Willow finished. "Well that rules out a vampire. What else is human but can rise from the dead?"

"Looks human," Xander corrected.

"Right," Willow conceded. "We need Giles. Instead he is shirking his responsibilities with his old buddy. Shirker."

"Yea," Xander agreed. "I don't know about you, but I thought I had reached my British guy quota with two."

"Agreed, though it is nice to see someone from Giles's past that doesn't refer to him as Ripper. Still you think they could have waited on the reunion until after we solved this crises."

"Come on Will, like Buffy has never said she was patrolling while she visited Angel or went to a frat party or went to see Angel or went to see Angel. I mean they haven't seen each other in almost twelve years, you can't expect them to . . . Wait! When did our friend Tony die?"

Willow clicked back to the obituary and caught on as well. "He died twelve years ago this August."

"Right and Giles said that his good buddy Pat had left suddenly in August."

"You don't think Giles's friend has something to do with the beheading?"

"I think," Xander answered. "Did you see the way he flinched when Giles told him about the beheading?"

"Yea, but I just chalked that up to the freak factor."

"Come on, Will, he's a Watcher. They are trained to deal with the super freaky every day. I say he is definitely connected somehow. Did he say where he was before he came here?"

"I think so," Willow furrowed her brow. "They talked a bit after Buffy left and before they did. I think he said he came from San Diego."

"Any beheadings there recently?"

"I don't know," Willow said. "I did a local search, but San Diego is not exactly local." After a few key strokes and a brief wait on the school's internet connection, "There, two beheadings in the last month in San Diego."

Xander stood up and spread his arms out, pizza sauce dripping from a half-eaten slice. "Thank you, thank you everyone. I'm here all night." He lowered his arms as he realized what he said. "And I might not be kidding."

"But wait, this might not be a big deal."

"Excuse me," Xander came back to the computer. "Two beheadings not a big deal?"

"Well it is San Diego, you know, big city, lots o' crime. It might not be unusual for them."

"Will, I think your time on the Hellmouth has desensitized you to the super freaky. Trust me, beheadings are not the norm."

"Still, I better do a broader check, like all of California."

"Do all of the country."

"Okay," Willow was typing again, "but I'm telling you that . . ."

"Well?"

"In the last month, two beheadings, San Diego, California."

"Coincidence much?" Xander said smiling. "My work here is done. I mean that. I mean we are done, right?"

"Yes, uh, no. Yes, we know Patrick is involved somehow, but we don't know how or why, and we still don't know about Anthony. If Giles . . . Giles! He is with Patrick!"

"Calm down Will," Xander soothed. "If I was a renegade watcher controlling an undead killing machine I don't think the first thing I would do after entering town is introduce myself to the local Slayer."

"Ethan never kept a very low profile," Willow tried.

"And correct me if I'm wrong, but Buffy always kicked Ethan's ass each time he showed up. I don't think he got an 'A' in the strategies class at the Watcher's School for evil."

"True, but . . ."

"No buts, Will. We call Buffy with the info and then call it a night."

She reluctantly agreed. She quietly hoped Giles would be okay.

***

"Trust me, I was not okay with it," Giles said, his speech slightly slurred. "Here she was, my Slayer, and she was keeping secrets from me. Not just any secrets mind you, but her killer boyfriend had come back from the dead. This is the same one that tortured me bloody near to death." Giles took another drink and continued his story.

Patrick nodded pleasantly and sipped his own drink a little less liberally. He was truly excited about getting caught up with his old friend, but after a few beers, Giles was no longer reminiscing about the old times and was only telling, what sounded like, tall tales about his current job. Patrick was happy about meeting Rupert, but that was only part of the reason he was here.

Anthony Marcus was here, the news of the beheading confirmed it. He was not sure how Giles would react to hearing that he was involved somewhat with their current investigation, but he did not plan on letting him find out either. The library that Giles kept stocked with books was one of the best sources for super natural research this side of the Atlantic Ocean, and he needed to look a few things up.

He was Anthony's watcher, and he was having a very difficult time with it. Watcher's for immortals were supposed to be very hands off. The emphasis was on the "watching." But Anthony was in serious trouble. After killing his mentor, he had gone on a rampage of random killings. He had cut back on the killings within the last few months, but he was no less psychotic. He rarely went to sleep anymore, preferring to kill himself each night.

Patrick wanted to do something. He wanted to call the watcher's council in to handle the situation and remove Anthony from the game, permanently. He was killing mortals, after all. Instead, he hoped to find some helpful information in Giles' library. Maybe this psychotic phase was something all immortals went through, and he would get over it. Or maybe there was precedence in this case and he should call in the council. Whatever the situation he hoped he would find the information while he was here.

Giles was looking at him expectantly, and Patrick nodded as if listening. This seemed to be the right thing to do, for Giles smiled and continued with another story about his precious Slayer. Maybe Buffy would handle this situation for him. When this whole thing had started almost twelve years ago, Patrick had no idea it would become like this.

Sure, Anthony had started in shambles, most immortals did. He was usually drunk, when he could find someone to sell a minor alcohol, and almost always drugged up. Lots of that had to do with his rather reckless lifestyle before. He did, after all, die originally from a drunk driving accident. But as a potential star football player at prominent university, his future had been bright. Now he had to deal with the fact that he was immortal and his old life had been torn away from him.

There had not been an immortal waiting for him, as some do, and he had begged and wandered up the coast. That was until Kelron had tracked him down. When Patrick had found out that Kelron Morian had taken an interest in his wayward immortal, he was thrilled. Unfortunately, it had not all gone as planned.

***

1988

Oakland California

Kelron walked up to the front desk of the drug rehabilitation center and smiled at the middle-aged clerk who was watching him closely. "Hi, my name is Kelron Carter. I'm looking for a young man who might have come to you within the past two days."

"We have a lot of young men here. They come and go. Do you have a picture or a name?"

"I have both." Kelron reached into his back pocket and produced a very realistic senior photo from an LA high school with the name "Anthony Carter" cursively written in the side. He also had a copy of Anthony's birth certificate. "I am his uncle. You have no idea how worried we have been. Do you know if he is here?"

"I think I've seen your nephew," she said as she consulted a folder containing rap sheets of recent inductees. "Last night a young man came in calling himself Anthony Marcus. He had a driver's license and everything. We checked out the name and driver's license number and found that Anthony Marcus died seven months ago in a car accident. His body was stolen from a morgue in LA. Does that sound like something your nephew could have been involved in?"

"I hope not," Kelron tried to look shocked. "His parents said that he might have had some friends that were in a gang, but stealing a body seems a bit over the top for Tony. I don't know how he came to have this dead boy's diver's license. Maybe his friends thought they looked alike."

"They do," the clerk said suspiciously as she looked between the file photo and the confiscated diver's license. "Almost identical. How did you know that?"

Kelron shrugged, inwardly cursing himself. "Just a guess, I mean why else would he take it."

The clerk continued to eye him suspiciously. "We need to check out this new identity sir, it might take a while."

"Didn't you finger print him when he came in last night?" Kelron asked as innocently as possible.

"Yes we did," she responded, "but we have not heard back on it yet. They'll fax it to use when they get a match."

"Is that the fax machine back there?" Kelron asked, pointing through an open door to a huge machine, which looked to be overflowing with incoming faxes that had not yet been looked at.

Kelron was not getting on the clerk's good side, and his "Hurry up" attitude was clashing violently with her lethargic morning routine. "I'll check it," she said.

Kelron waited patiently as she slowly walked back to the machine and even more slowly went through the stack of papers. As he waited, he hoped that his friend in the FBI had made good on his promise. He had gotten Kelron the fake birth certificate and promised to transfer all of the vital information from the dead Anthony Marcus to the new alias he had created.

The clerk came back five minutes later. "Your story seems to check out," she said. Kelron found it odd that she would call his claim as Anthony's uncle a "story." Hopefully the fact that she did not like him would not count against him.

"I'm here to see if I can take him with me." The clerk laughed at the comment. "That is," Kelron said, "if he's not accused of any crime."

The clerk stopped laughing. "He's not, yet," she added the last word almost hopefully. "A beat cop brought him in last night. He said he found him passed out in an alley. He thought your nephew had ODed originally, and was on his way to the hospital, when his passenger quite suddenly awoke in his backseat. Instead, he brought him here. He had nothing on him, so we can not charge him with possession, unless you count what was already in his system."

"So I can pick him up?"

She shook her head. "Normal procedure is to hold him for a week at least as we run a background check to see if there are any outstanding warrants on him or if he has a colored history. If that's the case, he could get transferred to a higher security rehabilitation center. I wouldn't get you hopes up," she added with a smile.

"You might be surprised," Kelron smiled back. While Anthony Marcus had been a troublemaker, Anthony Carter's background should be perfectly clean. They would not find anything. Kelron's friend at the FBI had even set up a dummy phone line with an answering machine attached in case they wanted to call his parents.

"And if you don't find anything after that week?"

"Then we hold onto him for a month unless a relative shows up," she said grudgingly.

Kelron was all smiles. "Can I at least see him now?"

She nodded and hit a buzzer to bring a security guard. The guard escorted Kelron back to the security wing of the center. Each "inmate" had his or her own luxury padded cell with a cot, sink, toilet, and TV. Kelron sensed Anthony a good while before the guard stopped at his cell. "You've got five minutes," he said as he opened the cell. "I'll be waiting outside for you."

"Thanks," Kelron said, but the guard merely grunted as he stepped aside so Kelron could enter. Anthony was, not surprisingly, sitting in the corner of his cell with his knees hugged tight to his chest. Aside from the fact that Kelron was probably the first immortal Anthony had ever sensed, he was also coming down from a wicked high the previous night. His immortality had completely removed the chemicals in his body that had been responsible for his death, but not everything in the drugs he had taken was lethal.

"Who, who are you?" Anthony asked, obvious fear in his voice.

Kelron closed the door behind him and took a seat on the only chair available, the toilet seat. It was not the cleanest stool, but Kelron did not want to tower over his new nephew. "I am a friend," he started slowly. "I know what you are going through, and I don't mean the drugs. I have no experience with that, thankfully. I'm talking about the other thing."

Anthony's grip on his knees slackened a little. "What do you know about me?"

"I know that seven months ago you were in a very violent car crash, of which I'm sure you remember only very little. Although I imagine you remember waking up in a body bag at the morgue a few hours later quite well. I also know that you have been wandering all over this state since then begging and stealing to get by."

Anthony gripped his knees a little tighter at this stranger's extensive knowledge of things he had told no one. Kelron realized his knowledge might be a bit intrusive to this frightened kid. He was only 19, and if Kelron was going to keep him alive to see 20, to say nothing of 200, he would need to handle this more gently.

"My name is Kelron Car- uh, Kelron Morian. You could sense something strange when I stood outside your cell, couldn't you?" Anthony nodded slightly. "I sensed you as well. You and I are a lot a like." Anthony started to shake his head a bit at this. "Yes, I assume I appear old and stuffy to you, but trust me when I say that I want to help you. Promise me that you will behave while you are here and I will get you out, okay?"

Anthony had no other response but to nod his head. "Times up," came from the guard outside. Kelron hardly thought it had been five minutes, but he had said what he needed to.

"Think about what I said," he finished as he rose to leave. "I'll be back tomorrow to check on you."

He did come back the next day, and the day after that, and every day until Anthony's release. Anthony had a lot of questions during that week, and Kelron answered the easy ones, promising that all of his questions would be answered eventually. When Anthony was finally released, he came willingly with Kelron. The two left the bay area, and drove east on I-80 past Sacramento and into the lower foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountain range. Kelron had acquired a small, secluded cabin in the woods, and he introduced Anthony to his new home. "For the time being," Kelron said.

On the first morning back from the rehab center, Anthony stumbled from the bedroom Kelron had given him and slumped down at the table. "Let me guess," Kelron said, "you're hungry?"

"Sort of," Anthony mumbled.

"What do you want? I've can make eggs, bacon, pancakes, French toast, sausage, anything you want." Kelron had a good idea what he wanted.

"You wouldn't have any heroine on you, would you?" Anthony said without looking up. After a few moments of silence, he did pick his head up off the table to see a disapproving Kelron looking back. The older immortal knew Anthony was going through withdrawal. He was prepared to deal with it, but he wanted to make sure Anthony knew why. "I'm mean it's not gonna to kill me, right? If I understand what you've been telling me, I am immortal. I will never die. Why not have fun?"

"Drugs will not kill you," Kelron said slowly and carefully. "They will, however, get you killed."

"What do you mean? I can't die. You said so."

"I said you are immortal. I said that death has no hold over you. I did not say that you can not be killed."

"I get it," Anthony said. "If a nuke goes off ten feet from me, I'm not coming back, but I can take a dive off the Golden Gate Bridge with rocks in my pockets, and I'll be fine. Trust me, I speak from experience. I woke up five times at the bottom of the bay before I gave up and took the rocks out."

Kelron sighed. There was a bit of a generation gap that he had to deal with. "Come with me," he said finally, walking to the door.

"We going out to eat?" Anthony asked, following his mentor.

They did not go to the car. In fact, Anthony could not see the car they had rode up in yesterday. Last night Kelron had driven it a ways back down the road and hidden it. He did not want Anthony trying to leave. Instead, they walked down a trail in the back of the house. Kelron did not speak, and pretended to take no notice of Anthony's moaning about a withdrawal headache.

They walked for fifteen minutes until they came to a small lookout ledge. It was not a direct descent over the edge of the cliff, but it was steep enough and deep enough to be fairly dangerous. "Let me guess, we both jump and wake up at the bottom," Anthony said. "I've tried this one too. It hurts a bit more though."

"Sit," Kelron said and took a seat three feet from the edge. Anthony shrugged and complied. They were looking southeast into the mountains.

"Do you know what we are looking at?" Kelron asked.

"Rocks?"

"These are the Sierra Nevadas. One of the more famous mountain chains in the Western United States. Do you know when the Gold Rush was?"

"Sure," Anthony responded, happy to show this guy he was not just a dumb kid. "1949. That's why the Niners are called that."

Kelron looked at him quizzically. "The Niners?"

"Yea, the San Francisco Forty-Niners, the football team. They are called that because of the Gold Rush."

"How very clever of you," Kelron responded, "using your sports knowledge to answer my question. However it was 1849, not 39 years ago."

"Oh," Anthony said quietly, thinking it a bit odd that so much could have developed out here in only 40 years. "Right, I meant to say 1849."

"Of course you did. That's not my point though." Kelron looked out over the vast range. "Back then these hills and mountains were crawling with people. Everyone thought all they needed was a pickaxe, a mule, and enough food for a week and they would be rich. People killed each other over the smallest things if they thought the other person was hoarding in on their precious wealth. Very few people actually got rich, and the rush itself was a dark time in this country's history, but without it, this whole area would not have developed as quickly as it did. It was a dangerous yet exciting time."

Kelron turned now to look at Anthony. "I was here when it all happened."

"Kinda wouldn't have been as impressive if it was only 40 years ago, huh? I guess my father was alive then."

"Yes, I suppose he was," Kelron sighed. "Do you know what the Titanic was?"

"Yea, it was a really big boat that sunk on its first cruise."

"It was a ship, not a boat," Kelron said with slight irritation. "It sunk on its maiden voyage. It was launched from Southampton, England on Wednesday, April 10, 1912. It was supposed to be man's triumph over the water. Here was a ship as big as a city block, made of steel, and it could float. People thought as you do now, that they were invincible. The Titanic was called 'Unsinkable.' Like you said it sunk on its first cruise. It struck a piece of ice and sunk. I was there when it launched. I was one of the several thousand that saw it for the first and last time."

"But you weren't on it?" Anthony asked. "That would have been cool, huh. Or maybe it wouldn't. Waking up on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean would suck."

"It was the North Atlantic Oce- oh, what's the point." Kelron stood up and started to walk away.

"No, wait," Anthony said suddenly. "I get it. You've lived a long time and you've seen a lot of great stuff."

"Do you get it?" Kelron asked him. "I'm not just talking to you about a few gold nuggets and a big boat. I'm talking to you about history. I lived through history. The French Revolution. Late seventeen hundreds. The country of France was turned upside-down and inside out with events that made the Revolutionary War here in the States seem almost petty."

"Was that when they invented all those things?" Anthony asked.

"That was the Industrial Revolution. The majority of it took place in the 1700's. The steam engine revolutionized everything from transportation to manufacturing. Again, man marveled in his own ability to create, until at the end of that century, like I said, he marveled in his ability to kill."

"Was that when all those paintings were made?"

"That was the Renaissance. Europe was reborn after the plague in the late 1400's and with the invention of the printing press, information spread widely across the continent. It was a time of political and economic enlightenment. The period lasted well over a hundred years."

"You were alive for that too?" Anthony asked.

"Most of it," Kelron said. He paused in thought. "What's the biggest thing you remember? The Challenger blowing up two years ago? The Olympics coming to LA two years before that? The Dodgers winning the World Series three years before that?"

"Hey, they have a good team again this year," Anthony said quickly, happy to hear something he actually did know about.

"Are you kidding," Kelron said. "The Athletics, back where we came from yesterday, with McGwire and Canseco are going to-" Kelron sighed, unhappy that he was taken off track. "My point is you have two choices on how to live your life, well three, but I hope you don't seriously consider continuing to find new and exciting ways to kill yourself. You can go through life with your eyes forward looking at not only the future, but the things around you that will create that future, or you can constantly look behind you, wondering where the next attack will come from."

"Attack?" Anthony asked. "From whom?"

"From other immortals. An immortal who keeps his head will live a long life. I mean that figuratively and literally. If someone cuts off your head, you will not wake up, ever."

A feeling of dread crossed Anthony's face. "Why would someone want to do that?"

"As an immortal you and I have a tremendous life energy. That energy is best seen in our regenerative powers. That queasy feeling you have when I get near you, or any other immortal for that matter, is you sensing that power. When your head is cut off, that power is released and is absorbed by the immortal who killed you.

"These immortals see our lives as a huge game. There can be only one, so they hunt us down and kill us hoping to be that one."

"So you want me to just skip through the daisies whistling a merry tune while these other immortals hunt me down to kill me?" Anthony did not like what he was hearing.

"Not even remotely," Kelron said. "That is why we train to defend ourselves."

"With what?"

"Swords," Kelron said simply.

"Why not use guns?"

"We use swords," Kelron said again. "Come, I'll show you."

Back in the house, Kelron showed Anthony his weapon. "It's beautiful," Anthony said with honest sincerity.

"Thank you. It is a Full Tang Dragon Wakizashi, hand crafted in Japan where I bought it, and custom made for me by one of the finest craftsmen in the East. I've had it for over 150 years. It is 30 inches in length, fairly long for a Wakizashi, but not so long of a sword. I was 42 when I became immortal and my limbs lack the agility I had in my youth. Because of that I need all the help I can get with regard to speed. The style with a Wakizashi is based on defense, but I have taken more than a few heads with it."

Kelron put the sword down. "I will teach you to fight, but I want you to know why. We must be able to defend ourselves, otherwise, as you said, we are just naively skipping through the daisies until someone kills us, but regardless of how efficient you become, you should never seek out battle. That will only bring destruction upon yourself."

With the severity of the things he was being told and shown, Anthony was growing quickly somber. He nodded. "Very well, now what do you want for breakfast?"

They trained hard for that first week, Kelron showing Anthony the different types of swords he had to choose from and the fighting styles to go with them. Kelron had quite a collection of high quality weapons, and Anthony tried them all from a huge 56-inch claymore to a lightning quick hawk scimitar. He eventually settled on a simple crane katana. It was not the fanciest weapon, but its 38 inches fit his long arms nicely, and its flowing style of combat was very compatible with his flexible frame.

They sparred slowly at first, always with the sheaths on their swords, but as the weeks turned into months, the sessions became more intense and Kelron found it hard to stay with his trainee. Anthony was a natural athlete and was as fit an immortal as Kelron had ever met. It was all Kelron could do to keep up with him. In order to properly teach someone, it is imperative that you know more than they do. It is not necessary to be more skillful. For this reason alone, Kelron was able to continue to teach Anthony.

The sparring was only a small part of the things Kelron taught his student. Between the grueling training sessions, Kelron told Anthony about the many different immortals he had met over the years. He spoke fondly of the ones he had trained and who he stayed in contact with. He also told Anthony of the ones he had been forced to kill. They discussed the few rules immortals upheld such as treating holy ground as a sanctuary.

And there was baseball. The cabin had a TV, and they could pick up a few games. As Anthony had predicted, the Dodgers were having a good year, but so were Kelron's A's. As their training came to a close, so did the baseball season. Unsurprisingly, the Dodgers and A's met in the World Series. The A's were huge favorites, and Kelron could not help but rub it in. In the nation's pastime, Kelron had found a way to bridge the huge gap between the two immortals. Of course, Kelron had seen Babe Ruth play, so there really was no comparison, no matter how far McGwire and Canseco could hit it.

It got so bad between them, that Anthony finally got Kelron to bet that if the Dodgers did win, he owed his student a night out away from the cabin. Kelron made the bet easily, sure that he would not have to make good on it. Five games later, after the Dodgers had shocked the A's and the rest of the baseball world, Kelron and Anthony found themselves in downtown Sacramento.

Anthony was now 20, but even if he had been 21, Kelron was determined to keep his student far away from alcohol. He did not need to waken old demons. They had gone to a fine restaurant, and when the matter of the bill had come up, Kelron had the chance to talk about something he had not yet explained to Anthony, finance. Nothing made you appreciate interest more than a 500-year life.

As they walked the several blocks back to their car, Anthony guided the conversation back to baseball. "I don't know why you ever made that bet, Kelron. Your team never had a chance."

"You can't honestly say that," he shot back. "If Gibson hadn't gotten lucky in that first game, the A's would have swept them, and you know it."

"I know no such thing," Anthony said. "They were never going to hit Hershiser under any circumstance. He could have pitched four games if they needed him to."

"Now you are just bei-" Kelron stopped as a wave of power went through him.

They both felt it. Anthony was not startled by it right away. He had only ever felt it from Kelron, and then only on the infrequent occasions they got too far apart. Because of this, he did not recognize it as a warning. Kelron did, and he pulled them both into a nearby alley. "Where is he?" Anthony asked.

"There is no he," a female voice said from the back of the alley. They both spun around and saw a woman walk toward them, sword in hand. "This must be my lucky day," she said. "Two for the price of one, and only one has a sword."

Anthony had been staring at the woman, but now his eyes went back to Kelron. He had his sword in his hand. How had he kept it hidden in the restaurant? Anthony's sword was still in the cabin. "There is a church two blocks away, Anthony, get there - now. If I don't show up in half an hour, get the car, drive back to the cabin, and good luck."

"You want me to run?!" Anthony could not believe what he was hearing. "But she is just a woman. Give me the sword, and I'll take her down easily."

"Leave now!" Kelron commanded and attacked. The woman had her saber in front of her and blocked the attack easily. Anthony looked on in wonder as the woman spun and kicked in a wild frenzy of blinding speed that sent Kelron scrambling back against the wall. He never had much of a chance. The woman was just too fast.

She finally blocked his weapon off to the side and, even though they were only three feet apart, got her right leg straight up between them and kicked Kelron hard in the chin. His body went limp from the numbing blow, and she knocked the sword out of his hand. Kelron stumbled back and slumped, half-standing, against the wall of the alley.

"No!" Anthony cried.

"Don't worry, kid," she said as she readied her sword over Kelron, looking back over her shoulder at Anthony, "I'll give you a running start to the church afte-" her voice was cut off and she glanced down at a dagger sticking out of her chest. "Bastard!" she moaned with a gurgling sound in her voice.

As she stumbled away from Kelron, he retrieved his sword, stood up, and took her head. He was still shaky from the kick to the chin, and when the quickening came, he fell to his knees. Anthony had never had the quickening described to him in any way that could have prepared him for what he saw. The lightening storm was tremendous. The wind whipped up the scrap newspapers that were lying around in the alley and the lightening incinerated them as part of the terrific display. In the middle of all this chaos was Kelron, apparently unaffected by it all. His body occasionally jolted when a particularly strong bolt of energy screamed into him, but for the most part, he endured it rigidly.

When it was over, Kelron collapsed face first onto the dirty ground. Anthony ran over to him and helped him to his feet. "That was amazing!" he said.

Kelron grabbed him hard by the arms. "No, it was terrible. I hope you never have to do it, though I doubt that is likely. Don't ever enjoy it. The quickening can become addictive. That is part of the reason why some of us hunt each other down. And never underestimate your opponent like you did at the beginning of this encounter. She might have been a woman, but she was alive. That alone means a lot. She was also hunting us. She would not do this if she did not feel confident in her skill."

Kelron looked down at the body of his defeated opponent. She had several centuries of decomposing to get caught up on, and with her life energy gone, her body was making up for lost time. In an hour, she would be unrecognizable. "Let's go."

***

Giles was just finishing up a particularly long tale about some vampire named Spike, and Patrick was waving down the waitress for a check. He was going to need to drive Giles home, that much was pretty obvious. He hoped there would not be a quiz on what they talked about tonight, for Patrick's mind had wandered quite consistently throughout.

After consulting several different credit cards, the two of them were finally able to pay for their bill, and Patrick took Giles home. Half an hour later, Patrick was in his cozy hotel room standing under a nice hot shower. No matter how many horrible stories Giles tried to tell him, his own bad memories of the last ten years came up as more terrible.

***

1988

The West Coast

After Kelron had killed the female immortal in front of him, Anthony became restless and left the cabin within the next month. Kelron provided him with a driver's license to go with his new identity and even gave him a moderate bank account. He did not feel confident in Anthony's ability to take care of himself, but he could not keep him cooped up either.

Anthony had no where to go. After he had come back from the dead originally, he had thought about showing up at home, but had decided against it. Now that thought flashed through his mind again. Before he had been a wreck. He smelled of death and was in a terrible emotional and mental state. Now he was fit and confident. He knew what he was and maybe his parents would be able to accept him.

Kelron had told him in no uncertain terms that he should not try to visit his parents or any of his friends. After a while of consideration, Anthony finally agreed that it was a bad idea. But he needed something to do. Kelron had given him enough money to last for a few years, and if he kept his expenditures low, that sum would actually grow if properly invested.

Anthony's restlessness lasted for one month. That was the time it took for another immortal to find him. Anthony had tried to rehearse what he should say when he met one. "I come in peace," and "I mean you no harm," sounded too flaky and cliché. He still had not decided on a proper greeting when he met his first immortal. Even if he had, Gaurug, the immortal in question, would not have allowed him to get it out.

Gaurug made his intentions clear from the start, drawing his sword immediately and promising to make the battle quick and painless if Anthony would just take a knee and accept his fate. Anthony politely refused, and Gaurug went through his pre-battle script as if he were a medieval knight recounting his great deeds before a joust.

Anthony thought he would feel nervous, but do to the absurdity of the foe he faced, any fears or doubts that should have crept into his mind were gone. He took his first head five seconds into the fight. The quickening was nothing compared to what Anthony had seen Kelron take in, for Gaurug had not been half as prolific as he had boasted, but that was probably good. Best to start out small, Anthony thought.

Because of the absurdity of his first opponent, the reality of what he had done, taking someone's life with a sword, did not fully dawn on him. The word "game" came up frequently in his mind as he thought about that first fight, and with the comic book antics of his opponent, it was simple to view what had happened as if it were just a scene in a movie and not real.

By the time Anthony faced his second immortal three months later, he had so convinced himself that none of this was real that he was now the one spouting a litany before battle. His opponent had not really wanted to fight. He presented his sword in a defensive posture and told Anthony to walk away, but it was not a friendly greeting, and Anthony was not going to back down. He won easily again.

In the next three years, he ran into several immortals. Those who greeted him in friendship, he accepted, those who did not were killed. Then a dry spell hit him. He went nine months without taking a head, and he felt an aching inside him. He needed a quickening.

Anthony was a junkie. In high school it had been cigarettes. In college it had been alcohol. After he died, it was drugs. With each change in his life, his addiction had taken a step up in severity. Now he realized that he was as high as he was going to go. No drug was going to beat a quickening, and he needed more.

The next immortal who approached him attempted friendship, but Anthony was too hungry. After that it was easy. After all, there could be only one. Anthony went all over the West Coast, searching out immortals wherever they were. A quickening was powerful, and he did not need a fix each week, or even each month, and that was a good thing, for immortals were not that common.

Nine years after he left Kelron, his life had done a complete 180. Kelron came across him in the top penthouse of a Las Vegas Casino. It had not been too difficult to track him down. Anthony had killed two immortals that Kelron considered friends, and with a little help from a watcher or two, Anthony was fingered as the perpetrator. Kelron had hunted down former pupils before, but as he stepped into the luxurious room at the top of the huge building, he had a bad feeling he would not be leaving.

Anthony sat in a chair amidst a cloud of smoke. He did not look up as Kelron entered, but the older immortal had no doubt Anthony knew he was there. Anthony wore a silk bathrobe tied loosely around his waist. He pulled another deep drag from his blunt and flicked it accurately into an ice bucket fifteen feet away. The champagne bottle in the bucket had been opened and was half-empty. There was a crystal glass resting precariously on the arm of his chair, and Anthony picked it up, drained it, and tossed it after his smoke. It shattered against the bucket, and the noise seemed to startle him from his contemplation.

"Ladies," he called out. He still had not looked up to see Kelron standing patiently before him. "Ladies!" he called again. Kelron looked to his left at the huge bed in the corner of the room. In it two naked women frolicked with each other, apparently not needing their customer to keep themselves occupied. "Leave."

They stopped their activity in the bed, gathered what constituted as clothing, and quickly scampered past Kelron and out of the room. "I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan," Anthony said as he stood slowly, removing his robe so he stood bare to the waist with only a pair of flashy silk pants. "We meet again, at last." He walked slowly over to the couch in the room, on which lay a fabulous sword. Anthony picked it up. "The circle is now complete."

It was not the simple blade Kelron had given him. Anthony had fought many immortals and even Gaurug had wielded a better weapon than what Anthony had started with. Anthony was constantly in the process of upgrading. The weapon he had now was a gold braid tachi, a magnificent sword. "When I left you I was but the learner." He pulled it free from its scabbard slowly, as if caressing it, the metallic ring filling the air. When free, he held it in an experienced pose. "Now I am the master."

Only a master of evil, Darth. It was the appropriate line, and Kelron had to admit it fit nicely, but he would not stoop to Anthony's level. He would not treat this as if it were a game, as if they were just characters in a movie. "Put the sword down, Anthony."

"Okay," he said easily. He relaxed his position and made as if to toss his blade back on the couch. He did not. Instead he just laughed. "What? Did you think you would find me and convince me of the errors of my ways? Did you think the prodigal son would just come running back to father knowing that all his sins would be forgiven?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Kelron said calmly.

Anthony laughed. "You, you, you," he said, jabbing his sword playfully in the air at his former teacher with each word, "you were always too good, too forgiving. There I was, a hopeless drug addict, destined to live my life on the streets stealing and killing my way into a deeper pit of despair. What had I ever done in my life to deserve a second chance? Nothing. No, but you saw the good in me. Isn't that right? You thought, 'Look at good 'ol Anthony here. He was just misunderstood. He is really a good kid.'"

Anthony laughed again and started pacing. "You really would take me back now wouldn't you?"

"I would."

"Yea, I bet. After everyone I've killed; after all the heads I've taken. You would just take me back. I collapse crying into your arms, my sobs racking my body as I beg for forgiveness." He raised is arms to the ceiling. "What have I done! What have I become!" He turned back to look at Kelron. "I have become powerful. You said I could live my life two ways. I could live looking over my back, constantly guarding against attack, hoping that steel turtle necks come into fashion, or I could look around and in front of me at the history that was unfolding. I chose a third option. I intend to write history."

"It doesn't have to be thi-"

"Oh, but it does, my good teacher. It does have to be this way. When I kill you, all of your precious little friends that you told me about will hear about it, and they will all come running. They will come running to face me. They will all die too. Then there will be me. Only me; and the prize shall be mine. Now THAT is history! My history. And we get to end the first chapter right here tonight. Pay attention," he began to spin the sword, "because if you thought the French knew how to take heads, you ain't seen nothing yet."

Kelron had his weapon out in a flash and worked solely defensively against Anthony's opening attack. He knew Anthony was stronger and faster, but he was also high on drugs and alcohol and probably not thinking straight. He could not beat him with skill, but he might be able to fool him with technique. That is, if Anthony ever let up.

Anthony's opening flurry was a blur of motion, his blade slicing up and down, side to side with no rhyme or reason. The swipes were vicious and fast, but not wrought out of any technique Kelron could discern, but he did not discount them either. He had taught Anthony, after all, and tricks were part of the trade.

Skillful or not, the blows did jolt the older immortal considerably. Just when he thought he might slip backwards, Anthony leaped back and smiled. "Your powers are weak old man."

Kelron walked forward cautiously, his blade swaying slowly back and forth in front of him, looking like a viper ready to strike. It did, and Anthony deflected it to the floor. Another strike, and Anthony angled that to the other side. A third and then a forth, and then Anthony spun the fifth in a wide circle and went back on the offensive. This time he showed his true colors cutting and slashing up his old teacher with hardly any effort. None of the strikes found flesh, but they ripped up his clothes with a vengeance.

Kelron was desperate to keep the attacks away from his body, wondering what he could possibly do to bring this fight elsewhere other than its inevitable end. Anthony saw this frustration and smiled as he twisted the next quote around to fit the situation. "You can't win, Obi-Wan. And if I strike you down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

Kelron was short on breath now as his blocks came later and later. Anthony made two wild attempts at Kelron's head, which the old immortal blocked hastily, but Anthony angled his second attack down at the last second, bouncing lightly off the block and slicing into Kelron's ribs. The wounded immortal stumbled and lost strength in his left arm, as he struggled to hold his sword in his right.

It was over three swipes later. The first was blocked, sending Kelron's weapon out wide. The second chopped down on the prone blade, dropping it to the floor. The third was preceded by the fateful words, "There can be only one," and followed by a spectacular lightening display. This was Las Vegas, after all, the City of Lights.

Anthony rode out the violent storm like he had done so many times before, noticing an eerie feeling creeping over him that he had done something terribly wrong. The last thought that went through his mind before he passed out was that the deposit on the room was shot.


	3. Chapter 3

The Head of a Slayer

A Buffy-Highlander Crossover

by David Pontier

****

Chapter 3

Buffy, Willow, and Xander walked into the library early in the morning. It was Saturday, but they felt confidant Giles and Wesley would be there. They were not disappointed. "Good morning," Giles said pleasantly. "How did the investigation go last night? We found several-"

"Where is Patrick?" Buffy said authoritatively. "We need to talk with him. Where is he staying?"

"Well, actually," Giles started, but stopped as Patrick walked out from the stacks and looked down at the group from behind the railing. "He's here."

"Who is Anthony Marcus?"

Patrick nearly fell over the railing. He did drop the book he was holding and scampered to pick it up.

"Who is Anthony Marcus?" Giles and Wesley asked in unison, the question aimed at Buffy.

She was not looking at them though. She had her attention focused on Patrick. "Who is he, and what is your connection to him?"

Patrick knew that a watcher of an immortal was supposed to keep his trade in secret, but if he wanted Buffy and Giles' help, he would have to be forthcoming. "Anthony is an immortal," Patrick said slowly.

"An immortal what?" Buffy persisted. "In immortal demon? A sorcerer? A what?"

"None of those things," Patrick replied working his way down the steps to be with the others. "He is just immortal."

"Who is Anthony Marcus?" Giles and Wesley asked again to no one in particular.

"You can't just be immortal," Buffy argued. "He's got to be something else, some type of magical being. And what is your relation to him?"

"Who is Anthony Marcus?!" Giles and Wesley screamed together, the question aimed at anyone who was within earshot.

Buff turned to regard the Brits for the first time. "He is our killer, our head chopper. He is also the one who has been parading through my dreams. I saw him die almost twelve years ago. Now he is back, and your friend Patrick knows about it."

Everyone turned to look at the newcomer. "I'm his watcher," he said slowly.

"And you lost control of him?" Giles said accusingly.

"It's not like that," Patrick said quickly, "and from what I've heard, your record is not too clean either." Giles shut up quickly at the reference to Faith. "Besides, watchers for immortals do not have any influence on their actions. We don't get involved; we just, well, we just watch."

"And now you are watching him go on a killing spree and what are you going to do about it?" Buffy asked.

"My immortal is insane," Patrick admitted. "It happened two years ago when he killed his mentor. From the research I've done so far," he held up the book he had been reading, "it is not so uncommon. When an immortal kills another, they take on their spirit and essence in a violent energy storm called the quickening. In several different cases, when an immortal killed his mentor, the conflicting mindset of the two immortals clash violently in the victor's head, and he goes insane. I am hoping to find out a cure or to see if it is temporary."

"So your answer to just let him go on killing, hoping that he is just going through a phase?" Buffy was disgusted with the idea. She turned to Giles. "What is wrong with you people?"

"What, I, uh, we," Giles could not get a phrase out.

"The watchers for immortals are totally separate from you demon fighters. Ours is a more secretive society. Immortals are not usually dangerous."

"Didn't you just say they go around killing each other?" Xander asked, getting into the conversation. "Because I don't know what you consider dangerous, but that ranks pretty high in my book."

"They only kill themselves," Patrick clarified.

"Oh, well then," Buffy threw up her arms in a very sarcastic gesture, "by all means carry on. If all they are doing is killing each other, what can be wrong with that?"

"It is their way," Patrick tried to explain, but he could see he would get little understanding from this crowd. "For some of them it is a game."

"Last one standing wins?" Xander asked.

"Not all of the immortals believe that. Most try to live out their lives helping the mortals around them."

"Oh, right," Buffy said, growing more frustrated by the second, "because us lowly mortals are just so helpless."

"Isn't that what you do?" Patrick scolded, gaining back a bit of confidence.

"I kill demons," Buffy bit back. "I don't kill other Slayers," she paused thinking briefly of Faith, "not that it hasn't crossed my mind though."

"I'm still confused," Willow spoke up for the first time. "Doesn't the definition of being immortal kind of go against the whole idea of dying? I mean how do you kill an immortal?"

"Let me guess," Buffy said before Patrick could speak. "They cut off their heads." Patrick nodded. "So what do they do, just go around cutting of people's heads hopping they get lucky? Or do they shoot first and ask questions only if the victim gets up a few minutes later?"

"An immortal can sense when another of their kind is near. It allows those who wish to live in peace to great each other first in friendship, but it also acts as a warning device to those who believe there can be only one."

Buffy grew suddenly quiet. There can be only one. Those were the exact words Anthony had said to her in the dream. At the time she thought it was referring to the fact that there were two slayers, and that he was a vampire trying to even up the score, but he was not a vampire. He was an immortal. He had cut off her head in the dream. He thought she was an immortal. Buffy chuckled to herself, but then stopped.

Patrick said that immortals could sense when another was near. She had felt something strange when she had seen Anthony in that restaurant. Was she immortal? "How does one become immortal?" she asked slowly.

"You have to be born that way," Patrick responded. "The immortality lays dormant inside you until you experience a violent death. Otherwise you will just grow old and die. Once you experience that violent death, your immortality is triggered and you revive exactly as you were before you 'died.' If you were four years old, then you will live the rest of your life as a four-year-old until someone takes your head. Any scars or deformities you had before the death remain, but anything received afterwards regenerates at an extraordinary rate."

Buffy reached her hand up casually to her forehead, across which dozens of vivid scars had traced a bloody line. All had healed completely and quickly. Giles told her it was her Slayer powers, but was that all that was at work here? "What kind of violent death?"

"Take your pick. Gun shot, stabbing, falling, or in our case, car accident," Patrick explained.

"What about drowning?" Buffy asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"Yea that would work," Patrick said. "Basically any type of death that does not come from natural causes."

Buffy's head was swimming now. They had been looking for an explanation to find out how she had retained her Slayer powers after they had been passed on to Kendra. Here was her answer. Patrick had said that an immortal reverted back to the state they were in before they "died." If they had scars before, they had scars after. If they were for years old before, they were for years old after. If they were the Slayer before, they were the Slayer afterwards. Forever.

Giles noticed the change in Buffy's mood, but could not figure out what was bothering her. After the drowning question, he understood. "Buffy," he said cautiously, "if you are thinking . . ."

Buffy held up her hand to stop him. "Please, Giles." She was slowly walking away from the group, crippled with the thoughts and possibilities that raced through her mind. "Please, not now. I just, I, uh, I need to go." She turned and ran out of the room before she broke down in front of everyone.

"What just happened?" Patrick asked.

"Buffy drowned two years ago," Willow said bluntly.

Patrick looked around at everyone. "You guys don't think she is immortal, do you? I mean she's not."

"I don't think Buffy's so sure," Xander argued.

"She's not," Patrick said firmly. "It is incredibly rare to be immortal. I mean we are talking about one in a hundred million are born that way, probably less than that. I mean if she was immortal and the Slayer-"

"It would be a tremendous thing to have to cope with," Giles finished for him.

"Should someone go after her?" Xander asked.

Giles shook his head. "If there is one thing I've learned about Buffy, it is that she is capable of handling things in her own way. When she needs help, she will let us know. Besides, I have a pretty good idea where she is going."

Everyone in the room nodded except one. "She is not immortal," Patrick said another time, but no one was listening to him.

***

Angel sat on the edge of his bed, deep in thought.

He had not been out of his home in a while. Not since he had helped Buffy and friends get Willow back from the mayor. The particulars of that encounter were having lasting effects on him. The mayor might be a sadistic sorcerer bent on death and destruction, but when you're right, you're right. He and Buffy had no real future together. Who was he kidding? Picnics by moonlight were not that romantic. Plus, Buffy worked the night shift at her job.

Angel stood up from his bed in frustration. Pacing worked better for when you were trying to think through something. He had lived for a long time, but he had never loved anyone as much as Buffy. Even if they could work out the whole daylight issue, there was still the problem that they could never make love. Not that it mattered much, vampires could not have children anyway. What kind life was he trying to force on her? Live a celibate lifestyle with a husband that could only be seen at night and could never give her kids.

So far sex had been determined to be the trigger for him, but what if it was not that cut and dry? Angel wondered if any time he had sex he would revert back. He doubted it. The curse specifically said that as soon as he experienced true happiness he would lose his soul. If he had gone all the way with Faith, he doubted he would have put himself in jeopardy. He did not love her and therefore the act would have had no meaning to him. If he could have sex without losing his soul, then conversely, he could probably lose his soul without having sex.

Angel was not so single minded to think that sex was the only way he could experience true happiness. Up until that point, he and Buffy had never expressed their true emotions for each other, and since then, there had always been a cloud hanging over their heads preventing him from being truly happy. But what happened if they continued their relationship and they worked through all their issues? Would he experience true happiness at their wedding? When they adopted a kid? Just being with Buffy was risky. Waking up next to her on the nights she stayed over was tough. If it was not for the fact that he knew he could only look but not touch, he would have lost his soul countless times by now.

Angel laughed half heartedly to himself as he imagined Willow standing ready with an Orb of Thesulah for a quick curse in case they had too much fun. Maybe they could schedule it. You know, have Willow wait eight hours after they enter the honeymoon suite and then perform the curse. It was crazy. That's what it was. It was absolutely crazy. Buffy deserved someone normal. He had to end this insane cycle. The next time he saw Buffy he was goi-

Buffy burst into the room, quickly shutting the door behind her so the sunlight did not shine in too long. Angel was startled by her appearance. What were the chances that she would show up right as he was thinking about her? He laughed again. Did he ever think about anything else? His smile faded quickly as he looked at her. It was obvious that she had been crying. "What is it?" he asked, his voice soft and soothing. The bad news that he was leaving could wait for later.

Buffy did not say anything right away. Angel turned to watch her as she walked right past him. She walked slowly toward his bed and sat down. She sat in silence for a while, staring at her knees. After a long minute she looked up. "You were there when I died right? I mean, when the Master killed me, uh, when I drowned, you were there, right? I mean when Xander revived me." For having rehearsed this on the way over, it sure was not coming out well.

"You know I was," Angel said slowly, wondering where she could be going with this.

"You saw what Xander did to me, right? I mean you saw him revive me."

Angel nodded slowly. "He did CPR. You know, he pumped on your chest and gave you mouth to mouth." Angel smiled and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "He's probably fantasized about it hundreds of times since."

"Angel," Buffy scolded, "I'm being serious."

"So am I," Angel chuckled to himself, but he dragged his eyes away from the ceiling to look at her seriously. "He did it right. I mean, he did not take advantage of you, if that is what you are thinking."

Buffy shook her head. "Are you sure he did it right?"

"Of course," Angel said. "I mean you are alive, right."

Buffy was quiet for a while before speaking. "Do you think he took a class on it?"

"On what? CPR? How should I know? All I know is what I saw. One minute your were lying lifeless in my lap, not breathing, and thirty seconds later you were coughing up water, good as new. He saved your life."

"Good as new," mumbled Buffy to herself.

Angel heard her. "What is wrong, Buffy?" He walked over and sat beside her.

She looked at him. "Do you remember what I was like right after I got up? Right after I came back from the dead?"

"Yea. You were a bit wobbly at first, but after I tried to get you to rest, you pushed me off, saying you felt strong."

"How many drowning victims do you know of that one minute after they are revived are able to beat the most powerful vampire to have ever lived?"

"One," Angel replied honestly, "but she was – correction – is the Slayer, so I wasn't that surprised."

Buffy stood up and walked away from him shaking her head. "Please tell me what's wrong," Angel pleaded. "I know you came over here to unload, but I can't help you unless you tell me everything."

"Do you know anything about immortals?" she asked.

"You're looking at one, or at least you would be if you turned around."

Buffy did, slowly. "Not vampires," she clarified. "I mean immortals. Humans that are immortal. You can only kill them by cutting off their heads."

Angel thought briefly but shook his head. "I've heard of spells that are powerful enough to render a human impervious to death for a short period, and there have been countless legends of a fountain of youth somewhere, but immortality, as I understand it, has always been reserved for us demons."

"I've been having dreams about this one immortal in particular. I think he is after me. I think he thinks I am immortal. I'm not so sure he is wrong."

Angel was having trouble coping with this. "Are you saying you think you came back from the dead because you are immortal, and Xander had nothing to do with it?"

"Not exactly. I think my death triggered my immortality. Patrick said that an immortal's immortality is triggered by a violent death and after that they never age again. I died when I was sixteen." She stood with her arms wide, putting her body on display for Angel to look at. "Have I changed at all?"

"It's not that uncommon for girls to reach full maturity by age sixteen," Angel countered.

"Come on," Buffy disagreed. "I haven't grown a millimeter since then. I'm wearing the same clothes then as I do now. Well, not the same clothes, but the same size. I haven't changed one bit. Willow used to be shorter than me."

"Your hair has gotten a lot lighter," Angel said.

"I'm being serious, Angel."

"So am I," he replied. "I swear you used to be a brunette."

Buffy scowled at him. "Come on," he said gently, rising up from the bed to walk toward her. She spun away from him, and he did not pursue.

"Fate chose me to be the Slayer," she started another rehearsed speech she had worked on while walking to Angel's. "Fate chose me to be the Slayer in Sunnydale. Not just any Slayer could make it here. Fate needed a really good one. I killed the Master. Spike has killed two slayers, but I foiled everyone of his plans."

"Are you getting a big head?" Angel asked.

She spun to glare at him. "I killed you, didn't I." She was being completely serious, and Angel took a step back. "So here I am, one of the best Slayers that's ever lived, and I just happen to work on a Hellmouth. Convenient, isn't it. Maybe a little too convenient. Maybe fate thinks that no one else can cut it but me. Maybe fate needs me to hang around a while. So it makes me immortal to boot. Fate gives me a life time contract.

"Oh, they make sure that I'm not the only one first. The nature of my immortality is that I have to die first. This conveniently creates another Slayer that can handle the demons elsewhere while Buffy sets up a permanent residence on the Hellmouth, ready to save the world at the drop of a hat."

"Buffy," Angel tried to jump in, but Buffy did not let him.

"It's not bad enough that I win the lottery once. One girl in all the world that is chosen to fight the vampires. No, fate makes sure my number comes up again. Only this lottery is a little different. I don't get paid. There is no cash prize waiting for me. You win this lottery and you have to pay. You have to pay with the lives of your friends, what few you can make. You have to pay by giving up any chance of a normal social life. You have to pay by spending your nights fighting demons. That's why it is not supposed to be a long gig. Each Slayer has an expiration date. We live a hard and short life. Not me, no. Not Buffy. She gets to hang on to this killer job forever. And if you thought waiting for chemistry class to end was a long time, you're in for a big surprise, because eternity is forever."

The rant appeared to be over, but Angel could not think of anything to say. "Now I have this immortal after me," Buffy said, most of the wind out of her sails.

"We'll get him, Buffy," Angel said. "We'll go out tonight together and-"

"No," Buffy said. "We won't. I will."

Before he could argue further, she went somewhere he could not follow: outside into the sunlight. Angel sat back down on the bed. He could not fathom the idea that Buffy might be immortal. But what if she was? This changed everything, right? No. It changed nothing. They still could not make love. He still could not exist in daylight. Now they could be apart forever. This made it worse.

***

"Budweiser."

The bartender nearly laughed at the request. The kid appeared no older than 19. The bartender had worked at his job for over 15 years and was rarely wrong. "ID," he said casually, not making one move to get a drink for the patron.

Anthony Marcus shrugged his shoulders and slowly reached under his coat for his wallet. He dug through it briefly and plopped his California driver's license on the counter. The bartender smiled at the card as he picked it up. No one tried to fake an in-state driver's license; this ought to be good. The bartender read the dates and froze. This was not a fake, or if it was, it was the best one he had ever seen. Tipping it slightly he could clearly see the holographic state seal that even the best counterfeits had a hard time duplicating. The problem was this ID did not say he was 21, it said he was 30.

When people tried to lie about their age, they tried to make it believable, and the bartender had never seen a fake ID that had ever made its owner out to be any older than 23. He slowly placed the license back on the counter. "You were born in '69?" he said questioningly. "Who was president in '72?"

"I don't know who the president is now," Anthony retorted. "Now give me a Budweiser."

The bartender obeyed. Anthony took the bottle and drained half of it quickly. He knew his ID was going to give him problems sooner or later. He had just renewed the license last year, and the ignorant woman that worked at the DMV had not even batted an eye at the birth date. He could probably get away with renewing till he was 100, but the bartenders might start to get suspicious. When his license declared he was 40, he did not know what he would do.

Kelron had set him up with his current false ID, but Kelron was not around anymore. Anthony chuckled as he thought of his mentor. How naïve had he been? How could he think that he could survive in this brutal world by making friends with everyone? That is not how the world works. You need to take what you want before someone else takes it from you. The strong are the ones who rule this world. He was strong. He was going to-

Anthony's stomach grumbled and he almost heaved. He took a deep breath and remembered where he was. While he thought of immortal issues he usually tended to zone out. He was in a bar drinking. It is where he always was. He had an empty bottle next to him and a half-empty bottle in his hand. Was that all he had drank? No. He had an idea that if the bartender had not been clearing way his empties, he would have amassed quite a collection by now.

He looked at the bartender now and saw a bit of fear in his eyes. Anthony knew why; he looked like he was going to hurl. "You're finished, Mr. Thirty-Year-Old," he said, taking the half-empty bottle out of his hand, and clearing the other empty.

Anthony rose partway out of his seat, his right hand dropping to the sword hilt hidden inside a specially sewn in compartment in his coat. He did not pull it though. Instead he took his wallet out again, paid for his tab, and left. He just needed a few minutes in the fresh air, and he could hit a different bar. He just needed to stop thinking about Kelron.

***

Mike, Ted, and Jerry walked quickly down the street, casting eyes all over the place. It was just past sundown, and they were very nervous. They were vampires, and this town belonged to the Slayer.

"Man, we shouldn't be out here," Ted said, easily the most nervous of the three. "We should be back at the nest."

"Are you kidding me," Mike said hotly. "I'm sick of eating leftovers. I want something fresh."

"Ted's right, Mike," Jerry added. "It is dangerous at night."

"We are vampires." Mike stopped walking and turned to look at his two friends. "We own the night. Besides," he reached into his coat pocket, "I have this." Mike held a pistol in his hand. "The Slayer might be tough, but she is no Superman. Bullets kill her just as dead as everyone else."

"Are you nuts," Jerry said. "Guns cause internal bleeding and total loss of blood pressure. It makes feeding from the neck like trying to suck milkshake through a straw."

"I don't want to drink the Slayer," Mike said. Both his friends looked at him dumbfounded as if he had just said he did not want to drink Britney Spears. "Okay, okay, I do want to drink the Slayer. But I'm not so stupid as to try." He hoisted the gun. "This is to kill the Slayer so we can drink everyone else."

This little speech gave his friends some confidence, and they fell back in line. It did not take them too long to spot their first victim. He was walking slowly in a gate that was common among alcoholics who did not want to appear drunk. "It looks like we have a winner," Mike said to his friends. Blood was good all by itself, but if you could get a beer buzz from it as well, all the better. They spread out to surround the helpless drunk.

Anthony might have been drunk, but he was not helpless. He saw the three men approaching before he should have and noticed their attempt at stealth. They appeared to be no more than a few teenagers, but he knew he looked the same way. Anthony would be the first to tell you looks could be deceiving.

"Looks like you've had a bit too much to drink there, friend," Mike said, as he walked directly up to Anthony. "Perhaps you could use a hand getting home."

Anthony looked his new friend in the eyes, seeing and sensing that he was not all the he appeared. "Stay away from me," he said calmly, very little slur in his voice. He had gotten a lot of practice fighting drunk, and he was preparing for it now.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Mike said, and he cocked his head to the side as his demon visage came to the forefront. "You see, I'm kind of hungry."

Mike charged, but Anthony knew Ted and Jerry were behind him. With his sword on his left, he pulled it with his right and punched out at Mike with his other hand. Mike was not ready for the defensive move and stumbled under the blow. Anthony swept his blade out and turned all at once, slicing high in the air behind him. He nearly took both of the other vampires' heads, but their demon instincts took over and they ducked just in time.

"Holy crap, dude! He's got a sword!"

"Shoot him!"

Mike ignored his two friends' cries and took stock of this prey. He was not as helpless as he seemed, but he was drunk. What he was doing with a sword, Mike could not figure, but he would not be able to defeat them.

Anthony was good. He was plenty good enough to beat these three worthless vampires, but not in his current state. And not without knowing a thing or two about vampires. The head-shot was not easy, and in his battles with non-immortals he always changed his strategy to go for the much easier attack lower on the body. That was his mistake.

All three vamps came in hard, but were driven back by the expert swordsman. One of the creatures ducked behind a stop sign, but Anthony sliced neatly through the wooden post driving the vamp back further. Mike hesitated before charging again, realizing they were going to have to change their strategy to beat this target. He waited for the rest of his group to gather themselves before attacking.

They all the rushed him again and he pirouetted, slicing his weapon in three different directions at once. Jerry ducked out of the way, but did not retreat fully. He came back in quickly, and Anthony hastily tried to keep him at bay with a backhand. It was not a powerful strike, and easily avoidable, but Jerry willingly took the slash across the side, howling in pain as he did.

Jerry grabbed onto the blade with his hands, as its momentum had been stopped. Anthony wrenched it free, surprised both at the willingness to take the hit and his adversary's incredible strength. The unexpected stop in the middle of his battle cost him, and Ted and Mike were on him quickly. They were both too close for a swipe with his long sword, but he spun an elbow into Ted's face and tried to lash out at Mike with his left hand.

Mike took the punch, as there was little behind it, and continued in. He punched back, lifting Anthony into the air from the mighty blow. He did not go far, and Ted grabbed him when he landed, securing his arms to his sides. Anthony was strong. After all, he had not been offered a scholarship to play football at UCLA for his looks, but he could do nothing against these monsters. He struggled, but the increase of his heart rate during the fight only made his inebriation worse.

"Nice try, buddy," Mike said, licking his bloody lips from when Anthony had punched him first. He dove into Anthony's neck. The rush of power was more than Mike could ever have been ready for. He sucked a good pint before he could recoil from the immortal's neck. His head spun and swam as he felt the rush of energy course through him.

As Mike was finally able to shake his head free from the sense of extreme euphoria, he found that he had stumbled to the ground and looked up at Anthony who stood limply between the other two vampires. "What have you been drinking?"

Anthony barely heard the question. He was barely awake. The massive loss of blood pressure so suddenly, combined with his drunken condition threatened his consciousness. Ted and Jerry looked in wonder at Mike's reaction to the feast they had held for him and did not waste time partaking for themselves.

Anthony fell to the ground a second later as the two vampires who had been holding him recoiled from his intoxicating blood. Ted felt the wound on his side and across his hands where he had grabbed the sword start to tingle as the regenerative blood worked its way into his system.

Anthony was nearly dry and had lost consciousness, but Mike did not want to let any of the precious blood go to waste. Still too disoriented to walk, he crawled over to Anthony and sucked as much as he could from his neck. Jerry wobbled to his feet and walked over to pick up the sword that Anthony had dropped. He pulled it out of the ground and admired his new prize.

"Have you ever fed off a drunk before?" Ted asked as he struggled to his feet.

"He was no simple drunk," Jerry responded, swiping the sword back and forth in front of him. He felt incredible. The new strength that flowed through him was like nothing he had ever experienced. "There is something more about him."

Jerry and Ted both looked at Anthony as Mike was just now crawling off him. "Should we turn him?" Ted asked.

Jerry shook his head. "He's already dead. It's too late."

The two of them helped Mike to his feet and they walked off back toward the cemetery. They thought about heading back to the nest, but they felt it wiser to come down from their high first. They did not want the others to know what they had done. Any catch was supposed to be brought back to the nest so all could feed. After one whiff of Anthony's blood, there had been no way they were going to share.

***

"Have you seen this guy tonight?"

The bartender looked at the picture and then at the short blonde girl holding it. "Yea, he was in here about an hour ago. I cut him off after about six beers. He a friend of yours?"

"Sort of," Buffy said, putting the printout Willow had given her back in her pocket. "Do you know where he went?"

"Probably to the next closest bar. Let me ask you something, is he really 30 years old?"

"Yes he is," Buffy said, smirking at the bartender's confusion. She briefly thought about what life would be like for her when she was 30 or 40 or even 100 and still looked exactly the same as she did now. It would be just like Angel. "Thank you," she said to the bartender and left the restaurant.

It was a nice clear spring night and Buffy appreciated the legwork instead of her normal patrolling duties in the graveyard, which normally just constituted waiting around. She walked along the sidewalk trying to clear her mind of the heavy thoughts that had plagued her all day. She had managed to convince her friends that their best efforts would be spent in research about immortals. They had been adamant about her not going alone, but she had lied and said Angel would be with her.

A car horn suddenly blared from the intersection ahead as two cars nearly collided. Some heated words were exchanged, and the cars drove on. Buffy saw that on the other side of the street, there was a wooden stake sticking out of the ground where a stop sign had once been, hence the almost accident.

Buffy jogged across the street carefully avoiding the light traffic and walked up to the decapitated stop sign. There were no car tracks in the moist grass and the actual sign was lying only a few feet away. Buffy could also clearly see that the grass was heavily matted down around the sign.

"It was cut by a sword."

Buffy whirled around at the sudden voice, a stake raised by her shoulder on instinct. It was Duncan, the man she had met at the crime scene the other day. He gave a curious glance at the stake, which Buffy quickly tucked back into her coat, and smiled at her. "I see you are hot on the case again."

Buffy did not say anything but turned back to the wooden post in the ground. "Do you know what you are up against?" Duncan asked.

"I have a pretty good guess," Buffy responded. "Maybe you can answer a question for me though. It looks like our mutual friend cut down this stop sign, but I don't see any decapitated bodies. I mean this sign has been around as long as I can remember, but I don't think it qualifies as being immortal."

Buffy spun back around to see if what she said had a visible affect on her silent partner. It did, but Duncan did well to hide it. "I don't think Anthony 'killed' the sign on purpose," Duncan said humorlessly. He was happy to see Buffy flinch at the name. "There was a struggle here. I'd say three, maybe four people attacked him."

Buffy looked at the scene. To her it just looked like matted grass. "Who won?"

"I don't see much blood," Duncan said, "and as you so accurately pointed out there are no bodies, and without a loser there can't very well be a winner."

"So what did they do," Buffy asked, "call halftime and they'll be back in twenty minutes?"

Duncan gave her an odd look that she did not see. What was this girl talking about? "I think maybe the attackers thought they had won, but Anthony got up after they left. Right there," he pointed at a spot in the grass.

Buffy was looking at the spot too. While much of the grass was matted down, in sections it was already starting to spring up and even that matting was splotchy at best. In this one spot there was a large amount of grass lying down, and it was roughly human in shape. Buffy walked over to the spot and knelt where the neck would have been. She dabbed her fingers in the grass and they came back slightly bloody. "Figures," Buffy said, wiping her fingers clean on the moist grass.

"What is it?" Duncan asked.

Buffy stood and leveled a glare at him. "Do you know what you're up against?"

Duncan looked at her quizzically. "I'm here for Anthony Marcus. Is that not who you are after?"

"Yes," Buffy said, "originally, but it looks like we got a two for one deal. I don't suppose in your time of hunting immortals you've run across any vampires, have you?"

"Vampires?"

Buffy shook her head. "I didn't think so." She walked over to the beheaded stop sign.

"You are after vampires? But you are so . . ." he stopped as he watched Buffy pick up the fallen sign and tear away the metal octagon as casually as she might have removed a paper flyer for a lost dog.

She tossed the remaining two feet of the wooden stake to him. "You'll need this. Hold it with the pointy end facing away from you. The rest should be self explanatory."

Duncan caught the stake easily, noticing with interest the two large metal fasteners that had until recently held the stop sign to the post quite securely. He tucked the stake into his coat near his sword and looked at Buffy.

"Are you coming?" she asked. Duncan looked in her direction and saw the faint tracks leading away from the skirmish scene. "I'm willing to bet you can read these better than I can. You look like the tracking type."

"A strange girl," he muttered to himself, but smiled at her as he walked past and led the pair after the vampires. There was only one set of tracks leading away from the scene, so Duncan had a good feeling they would find Anthony at the end of the trail as well. He had tracked him across most of the West Coast, and now he would finally get his chance to avenge Kelron.

***

Three months ago

Seacouver, Washington

"It was nice seeing you again, Duncan," Russell said, standing from his chair next to the small table in the outdoor café. "We really should schedule these meetings more often."

Duncan stood and shook his hand across the table. "It's my pleasure, really. Next time you have business in Seattle let me know and I'll pick you up. It'll save you on cab fair."

"I'll do that. It looks like the Bureau might be sending me out here more often in the next few years. I'm sure we'll get a chance to trade a lot more stories."

Duncan smiled at his friend and watched him hail a cab and ride away. Duncan paused to pick up his unfinished coffee and drained the cup. He was about to leave when he saw Joe limping his way toward him. Duncan smiled and sat back down.

"I see how it is," the watcher said. "When you have friends you don't want me to know about you treat them to a drink out here. Is there something wrong with my place all of a sudden?"

"Hardly. That was Rust- uh, Russell Carter. He was just on a tight schedule and did not even know he would have time to meet me until about an hour ago."

"Old friend?"

"Really, old. When I last saw him, he was ripe and fiery. He was a gunfighter, and I swore he wouldn't last more than a year. Now he works for the FBI, and by all counts is making quite a name for himself. Kelron did him well."

"Kelron?" Joe asked.

"Yea, Kelron Morian. He's an old immortal who takes it upon himself to mentor as many of us as he can. We've met a few times. I figured an immortal like that would be on your guys' hot list."

Joe was suddenly somber. "Yes, I know of him. I had no idea you knew him. Were you friends?"

Duncan thought for a while. "Yes, I would consider him a friend." He noticed a change in Joe's demeanor. "Why do you ask?"

"Kelron Morian was killed about a year ago. He was killed by one of the immortals he had trained named Anthony Markus. Anthony had started well, but he was into substance abuse and got obsessed with the quickening. He was young and very athletic. Kelron tracked him down, and Anthony killed him."

Duncan was in shock. He had just spoken to Russell. The man worked for the FBI. He would have thought Russell should have found out about this a long time ago. The watchers were very secretive, however.

"We don't know much about Anthony's whereabouts or what has become of him. His watcher's last report was that Anthony had gone mad. It happens."

"So we have a mad killer on the loose," Duncan said. "What are the watchers doing about it?"

"Watching," Joe admitted.

Duncan got up from the table and walked quickly away back to where is car was parked. Joe could not keep up. "Duncan! You need to be careful. He's dangerous. You can't do this!"

"Watch me!"

***

Fifteen minutes later, Buffy and Duncan found themselves walking through one of the many cemeteries that dotted the outskirts of Sunnydale. Duncan still led but pulled up sharply as they neared one of the crypts. "What is it?" Buffy asked. "Do you hear something?"

"Not exactly," Duncan replied. He sensed another immortal nearby. "They are close."

Buffy nodded and crept forward to look in the crypt. Through a broken window she saw the three vampires talking to themselves. One of them was carrying a sword. Duncan walked up behind her. "I don't see Anthony in there."

"I'm sure he'll be around shortly to reclaim his sword, and frankly I don't want to have to deal with four at once."

"Maybe," Duncan said, still looking around, "but I thought I sens-" he stopped himself. He did not think Buffy knew he was immortal and did not want to have to explain the way he could sense when one was near. Maybe it was not Anthony. Maybe it was the vampires. The sensation did not feel strong enough to be coming from three, but maybe vampires gave off a weaker sensation.

"So," Buffy said, pulling her stake from her coat again, "are you up for a spot of violence?"

Before he could answer, Buffy walked over to the door and kicked it open. The vampires startled easily and backed away from the entrance as Buffy and Duncan entered. "You!" Mike said when he saw the Slayer. "What are you doing here?"

"What kind of silly question is that," she asked. "It's my job. My question to you is, 'Where did you get that sword?'"

Jerry held up his sword, still admiring it. "Do you want it?" he asked cunningly. "Come and get it." He felt pretty confident as Buffy was armed only with a stake.

"Wait!" Mike called before the fighting started. "Who is your friend?"

"He's my boyfriend," Buffy said casually. "My idea of an exciting first date is a bit different than most girls. Now are we going to fight?"

"No," Mike replied. "You are going to die." He pulled his gun out and fired a shot at Duncan. The bullet took him full in the chest and he fell back without a cry. Mike swung his weapon to Buffy, but she was on the move and his next three shots missed. She dove behind a raised stone coffin and waited, panting heavily.

"Come on, Slayer," Mike taunted, firing another shot into the wall behind her, hoping for a lucky ricochet, "hiding isn't your style."

"It's three on one," Buffy called back. "Do you really need the gun? It really takes all the sport out of it."

"Maybe you're right," he agreed. "Come out, and we'll fight fair."

Buffy crept to the edge of the coffin and peered around. She saw the three vampires smiling at her. None of them was holding a gun. She slowly stood and moved away from any obstructions. "How about you with the sword, I don't suppose you would cons-"

Mike pulled the gun out again and shot her. The bullet spun Buffy around and she went down on her back, a red spot quickly growing on her shirt. Mike threw his head back and laughed. "The almighty Slayer! What a joke! I suppose if we want any blood from her we are going to have to hur-"

Now he was cut off sharply from an intense pain in his chest. He looked down and saw the tip of a sword quickly retract behind him. He dropped the gun and fell to the ground. The other two vampires looked behind their fallen leader to see Duncan staring back, a large red stain on his sweater. "Impossible!" Jerry shouted.

"Hardly," Duncan replied, noticing with interest the change that came over his adversary's face. Jerry held the stolen sword and attacked. Duncan easily blocked the attacks but was staggered by the creature's strength. For the first few moments of the battle, Duncan was unable to counter, for each of his parries drove him back. Once he gained his footing, he was better able to deflect the untrained attacks instead of absorbing them. He crossed Jerry up quickly, and, out of habit, swung at his shoulders. The head came off, and both it and the body dissipated into a cloud of dust.

Duncan took a step back shocked, but then remember what Buffy had said to him the other day. "Sift through the dust, eh. I get it." Duncan searched quickly for the third vampire and saw him hunched over Buffy's crumpled form.

In all the confusion, Ted though it was a good time to feast on the Slayer before it was too late. A chance like that did not come around too often. Duncan rushed over to him but stopped as he heard the vampire cry out and suddenly thrown across the room. Ted started to get up, not quite sure what had happened, but there was a stake in his heart and the only moving he would do was if a stiff breeze lent a hand.

Duncan looked back from the spectacle to see Buffy struggling to her feet, a vivid red stain showing prominently over her stomach. "You threw him?" Duncan had seen her rip off the stop sign, but that vampire must have weighed close to 200 hundred pounds.

"Well, kicked," Buffy said, wincing as she stood, "but the result was the same. What happened to the other two?"

"I killed them," Duncan said. "One of them turned to dust just like yours did."

Buffy looked at him, concern across her face. "Only one of them turned to dust?"

"Well, yea . ." they both turned to look at the room. It was empty save for a gun and a sword lying on the dirty floor. "Should they both have dissolved?"

"It's the only way to kill them," Buffy said and tried to straighten up. She winced in pain again and moved to sit on the coffin she had hid behind a few minutes before.

Duncan eased her down, confused as to what was going on. She did not feel immortal to him. He could sense her power sure enough, but there was something different about it. She had taken a bullet to the gut, though, and now she was only slightly sore. "Who are you?" he asked finally.

"I'm Buffy," she said slowly, "The Vampire Slayer." She smiled at him and noticed for the first time that he was bleeding. "Oh, are you alright?" She reached out for his chest, but he backed away.

"I'll be okay, really, it was just a . . ."

"Just a what? Just a gunshot to the chest? Maybe I should be asking who you are?"

"I am Duncan MacLeod . . ."

". . . The Highlander," a voice said from the entrance to the crypt.

They both turned to see Anthony standing thirty feet away. "Born in the highlands of Scotland in 1592. He is immortal, like me." Anthony grinned broadly. "Kelron told me a great deal about you."

Duncan's face showed his anger clear enough, but he paused as he looked at his surroundings. "Uh, uh, ah," Anthony waved his finger in a disapproving fashion. "We won't be fighting here, what with it being holy ground and all. Besides, two immortals against one, I don't think that's in the handbook either."

Anthony walked forward to pick up his sword. Buffy had no handbook and climbed off the coffin to attack, but she winced again. "It stings a bit honey," Anthony said, "but you'll heal up just fine. When it does, I'll be waiting for you. Until then . . ." He bowed deeply and left.

"You're just going to let him go?" Buffy cried.

"We do not fight on holy ground. It is a sanctuary."

"What are you talking about? This ground is infested with vampires and demons. It is about as unholy as possible. Besides, he is a murderer. He does not deserve sanctuary."

"His time will come, as for you. We have a lot to talk about. How long have you been immortal?"

"I don't know," Buffy said. "I'm not so sure I am. I mean I'm feeling awful mortal right now."

"What do you mean?" Duncan gasped. "You just took a bullet to the gut."

"What, this?" Buffy pulled her damp shirt away from her stomach so it could hang straight. As it did, the bloodstain rotated around to her side. She lifted the shirt up a bit, and Duncan could see the bullet had only grazed her. It was a deep cut, but it should not be life threatening if treated properly.

"We need to get you some help," Duncan said.

"The library," Buffy said quickly.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a hospital, but . . ."

Buffy shook her head. "No, the school library."

Duncan shrugged as if that clarification had cleared things up at all. "Can you walk?"

"I can manage."

"Then let's go. I think we have a lot of explaining to do."

***

Mike was stumbling through the graveyard, leaning on each tombstone as he came to them. He had taken a sword through the chest, and while he knew he would not die, it did not make the pain any less bearable. He paused in his flight to consider his situation.

He had sneaked out of the crypt unnoticed, he thought, so he did not fear pursuit, besides, the Slayer was dead. He did not know who the other stranger was, but just by the fact he had stabbed him and not taken his head meant he did not know much about vampires. He supposed he should head back to the nest. He would have a lot of explaining to do on why they had left alone and why he had weakened their ranks by getting two of them killed. Still it was his safest bet.

Mike pushed away from the tombstone he had come to lean against and found himself looking at the tip of a sword. He looked up the length of the weapon and found the grinning face of Anthony. Shock and horror went through Mike as he recognized the man they had drained earlier. He also remembered the power of this man's blood and how he knew he must have been powerful. Also, he did not appear drunk now.

"I have some questions for you," Anthony said slowly. "What is a Vampire Slayer?"

***

"I don't like it," Xander said for the thirty-seventh time. "She should not be out there alone."

The normal gang was in the library going over the information that Patrick was providing them. So far it looked pretty good. Immortals were no stronger than an average human and had no special powers or magical abilities. The only hitch was their use of a sword.

"I mean she doesn't have a sword," Xander continued.

"Yes, but Angel does," Willow interrupted, "and she said that they would track down this Anthony tonight. I'm sure he is keeping her safe."

"I would be," Angel said, suddenly walking into the library, "if I knew where she was."

"Angel," Giles said, "you're not with Buffy. No, of course you're not. She lied. Why would she lie?"

"What else does she ever do?" Wesley asked.

"Is this the vampire you spoke of earlier?" Patrick asked, taking a few steps away from Angel.

Angel did not pay him any mind. "She came to my place this morning, crying about being immortal. Who put that crazy idea in her head?"

"She put it in her own," Giles said. "We have an immortal killer roaming the streets of Sunnydale taking people's heads. Buffy thinks he's after her."

"Well we need to find her. She shouldn't be out there alone."

"I've been trying to tell them that," Xander said, "but no one listens to me."

"She's reckless enough as it is," Angel continued. "If she thinks she is immortal, it can only get worse."

"Right," Giles agreed. "We need to find her. We'll split up. Xander and Willow, Wesley and myself, and Angel I assume you can make it on your own."

They all turned to go and saw Duncan and Buffy walk slowly into the library. "I found her," Xander said.

"Buffy, you're hurt," Giles announced, rushing up to take her from Duncan. He supported her back to the table and then rushed to get some medical supplies from his office.

Angel seemed more worried about Duncan, something that was not lost on Buffy. "Who's this?" he asked."

"He's my new boyfriend, Angel," she said, sarcasm dripping from her lips. "I decided I like my men a little older than you."

"You're joking, right?" Angel asked, not completely convinced.

"Or trying to," she said. "This is Duncan MacLeod." Buffy noticed Patrick perk up at this. She figured he might know him. "We ran into each other tonight. It turns out he is a friend of Anthony too."

"A friend?" Willow asked. "You mean like you and me friends, or you and Faith friends?"

"Like Faith," Buffy said.

Giles came back with his bandages and ointments and looked at Duncan for the first time. "Are you hurt too? Is that your blood?"

"No, I mean yes, but I'm . . ." Duncan started.

"Don't worry about him, Giles," Buffy said. "It was a simple gunshot to the chest, nothing to get worried about. But my scratch, this needs immediate attention."

Conversing with Buffy was often a chore, and a very pained expression crossed Giles' face as he tried to reason out exactly what she had just said. Buffy helped him out. "He's immortal, Giles."

Giles nodded and went to work on his Slayer. "And what have you come to believe about yourself?"

"I'm having doubts," she admitted.

"Let me help put some evidence behind those doubts," Patrick spoke up. "Duncan, would you mind showing us your wound?"

Duncan shrugged and lifted up his sweater. There nothing but a small red spot where the bullet had entered. "Have any of your wounds healed that fast, Buffy?" Patrick asked.

"Point taken. So I over-reacted. We should definitely go on and on about it. But I think Anthony believes me to be immortal."

"Not possible," Patrick said. "Like I said before, immortals can sense when another is near. He should be able to tell you are not one."

"Not true," Duncan spoke for the first time. "Buffy does give off a slight sensation. It is not as strong as a true immortal, but it is easily confusable to someone as young as Anthony."

"He is after me," Buffy said to Giles. "In my dreams, he is after me."

"Then we tell him he's wrong and he leaves," Xander said. "I mean all we have to do is prove to him Buffy is not immortal, and he'll forget about it, right?" Everyone looked at Xander as his brain slowly worked out the only logical way you could prove someone was not immortal. "Oh, right, bad plan."

Patrick was not convinced. "If I am not mistaken, Duncan, you are here because of what Anthony did to Kelron, correct?" Duncan nodded. "Then with that threat more prevalent, I don't think Anthony will come after Buffy. He'll go after Duncan."

***

"I want the Slayer," Anthony said determinedly.

He was standing in front of half a dozen vampires. Mike had quite unwillingly led him back to his nest. Mike had told Anthony what he knew about the Slayer. Supernatural strength and endurance. A chosen one imbibed with a spirit of power that is given to only one girl in all the world. And, Anthony thought, she's immortal. What a quickening that would be!

"Good luck," Trinian, the head vampire of the nest, said. The rest of the vampire's laughed.

"You fear her," he said. "You outnumber her six to one and you fear her."

Trinian growled. "You have come to mock us. That is not wise. We outnumber you as well."

"Please," Anthony said, "I come to you with a deal."

"I don't hear a deal. All I hear is an idiot spouting fantasy."

"You help me, and I will give you an all-you-can-eat feast you will never forget," Anthony offered. Trinian looked intrigued. Anthony turned to Mike. "Tell them."

"I fed off this one," he said. "I sucked him drier than a stone. His blood was like nothing I've ever experienced it was powerful and intoxicating all at the same time."

"You fed off him?"

"I am immortal," Anthony cleared things up. "My blood is filled with the spirits of ancient gods and kings. He sucked me dry, but fifteen minutes later I woke up fully restored."

"You would offer yourself as a meal?" Trinian was surprised.

Anthony laughed. "Hardly. I know of another. He is older than I am and more powerful. His blood would be twice the prize compared to mine. You could feed on him all day long, and he will always come back fully restored. You would never have to hunt again, and your strength would be unmatched."

"Who is this other immortal?"

"His name is Duncan MacLeod. He has come here hunting me."

Trinian laughed. "You fear him."

"I do," Anthony said honestly, "as you fear the Slayer. I have the means to kill her and you have the means to kill Duncan. We both have incredible things to gain and nothing to lose."

"Please tell me," Trinian begged, "how do you propose to kill the Slayer when we have all tried and failed?"

"I thought it might be as simple as creeping into her house at night and killing her in her sleep," Anthony said, knowing full well that the vampires could not enter her home. "Or maybe I can lie in wait as she walks to school with her friends. You see, you fight her at night, when she is hunting and prepared. You fight on her terms. I can attack her in daylight, when she is not prepared. Her weapons are wooden stakes and holy water. These mean nothing to me. I can take her head easily."

"Yet you can not defeat this Duncan, but you feel we can?"

"Again, he is not trained to fight vampires. He thought he had killed your friend here by stabbing him through the heart with a sword. I myself was defeated by Mike this evening and two of his friends because I was not aware of how to fight you. Plus your strength is greater than his is. Against the Slayer you might look weak, but against Duncan, you will be able to overwhelm him."

"Why not just take you now and skip all chicanery?" Trinian asked, a low growl coming from his demon visage.

"Because I know how to kill you, and then who would kill your Slayer?"

Trinian thought about this deal for a while. It did sound good. Anthony would kill the Slayer for them. Even if that were the only part of the deal, he would have agreed to it. But this revelation about immortal blood was even more fascinating. After they captured Duncan and after the Slayer was dead, maybe they would take this Anthony as well. Trinian smiled and nodded. "It's a deal."


End file.
